


The Last of His Name

by Windwyrm



Series: The Last of His Name [1]
Category: World of Warcraft
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bigotry & Prejudice, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Depression, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Fantastic Racism, Gen, Hatred, I may be shit at writing action but I sure as hell can write things nobody wanted to think about, Intrusive Thoughts, Mental Anguish, Mental Breakdown, Mental Health Issues, Mental Instability, POV Third Person Limited, Pandaria, Paranoia, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Post-World of Warcraft: Mists of Pandaria, Redemption, Self-Hatred, Suicidal Thoughts, Threats of Violence, Violent Thoughts, only tagging because they are recurring and central
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-21
Updated: 2020-03-02
Packaged: 2021-02-26 06:47:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 24,513
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21879106
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Windwyrm/pseuds/Windwyrm
Summary: Canon divergent Warcraft AU starting at Garrosh's trial - the Celestials' verdict is obeyed, and he is given a second chance and the task to atone for his crimes. How well, that is up for debate, and judged differently by different people.Third person limited so it has a lot of thought processes, skewed ideas and perceptions I do not condone in person, and that will get disturbing at times.
Relationships: Garrosh Hellscream & Anduin Wrynn, Garrosh Hellscream & Original Character(s)
Series: The Last of His Name [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1576162
Comments: 13
Kudos: 32





	1. Temple of the evil, Temple of the weak

**Author's Note:**

> Further character and relationship tags will be added as story progresses as I do not see the point in teasing a character that appears 20 chapters down the line.

A joke.  
  


That’s what it had been.

All along, just a bad, endless joke.  
  


He could pretend it started with the list of accusations a week ago, with the chains holding him like a beast to be displayed for at faire, prodded and paraded around... But it had not.

It had started years, _decades,_ before.

He had always been too sickly, too weak, too brash, too dense, too angry, evil, cruel, _unworthy_ to carry on his father’s name and legacy, unworthy even of men who had once called themselves ‘his brothers’ to speak truth in front of a court.  
  


In the eyes of everyone else, Garrosh Hellscream had always been a joke.  
  


So then, why bother?  
  


  


Finally acknowledging Taran Zhu’s request, invitation, to speak his mind, Garrosh stood up slowly, chains clanking. Fewer of them today than before, something the human princeling had no doubt insisted upon.

He slowly stepped away from the chair and table, and could feel Baine’s gaze bore into his back - his and everyone else’s. His own gaze followed the paving stones, polished to a shiny sheen by who knows how many years and footsteps. And his began adding to it. Let them think whatever of this gesture, but he could not stand still as he collected his thoughts, discarding plenty, changing plenty more, like a merchant sorting through a box of wares looking for just the right one to display for everyone to see.

His steps hastened slightly, echoing his thoughts. Amber eyes looked up towards the crowd finally, darting over the figures, taking it all in, all of it, properly, for the first time. Every single face, familiar, or not. Every single expression - none of which kind. A mass of Azeroth’s most infamous, and many more whom he was certain have never once seen him before now.

He stopped.

And what a spectacle it was! What a wondrous display!

Once, long ago, he returned from Northrend a hero, leading the troops that had fought against the Scourge and the Lich King, and Orgrimmar had cheered at them. He had been appointed Warchief, and Orgrimmar had erupted into a mix of outrage and cheering. He had won battles and the war, he had brought the Dragonmaw into the Horde, and slowly the cheers turned to outrage and objections towards his mere existence over the years… Each time, it had been crowded, loud…

And now, he was put on display for his sentencing. And were it that they could fit all of Azeroth in the temple, he was certain they would have come to cheer at it with more fervor than over any of his accomplishments.

Violently exhaling, throwing his head back and to the side like a beast, he began pacing again. Quicker. Eyes kept darting over the crowd.  
  


He could express regret, the little he did have.

Explain himself? For what. Those who understood him had stood by him to their last breaths.

Oh, no no no no no.

No.

They were not here to pray for sudden enlightenment.

He was quite certain not even Baine understood more now than he had ten days before, and he had put plenty research into it.

Proof of how Garrosh had been conspired against, proof of how he had been threatened, proof of how he had been in the right. And at the end of it all, Baine’s final words had been how he would perfectly understand how such a monster deserves death.

Assuming that correct, where was everyone else’s death sentence?

What of every other warmonger in this hall?

What of the Alliance? Of Varian Wrynn? Tyrande Whisperwind? Jaina Proudmoore?

What of the rest of the Horde? Vol’jin? Thrall? Sylvanas Windrunner?

This was not about justice to the world, to its people.

This was about vengeance.

Taran Zhu had denied them his execution, and now they had come to his land to drag it out of his hands by force.  
  


Muscles strained painfully in his legs, as did his mind, for his body desired to pace faster, yet his mind wished to deny them the pleasure of seeing his discomfort. Of seeing him act like the caged beast he was. A fist clenched around his chains, his nostrils flaring with each breath, his upper lip involuntarily twisting into a snarl.

Taking every ounce of self control he could exhibit, he stilled that too.

He stopped, glancing over the crowd once more, impassive visage.  
  


His mind caught up. Eitrigg was missing, his former adviser perhaps too old, too bored to sit through another execution. And High Overlord Saurfang was missing, too, but who could blame him after gentle lady Whisperwind had clenched her jaws around his leg, had stabbed searing daggers through his mind to get even a sliver of a negative confession out of him. Garrosh had once respected the old soldier, looked up to him, and while that feeling had long vanished, the injustice still gnawed at him... The honorable, noble Alliance, torturing and coercing frail old men... here to once more act entitled to Azeroth and the fate of everyone on it.

And with those two gone, who was left in the court that may even care to listen to his thoughts?

_Anduin Wrynn._

Garrosh’s amber eyes darted towards him and locked with his for a moment.

The pup was smarter than all those in this court, put together.

He would one day mature, lead his people, through better or worse. He would one day too be forced with hard decisions where not everyone wishes to hold hands and frolic through fields of peacebloom. He would one day perhaps have an unsatisfied noble pull a dagger on him, and look back upon this trial, upon Garrosh’s words.

He would one day understand.

With a snort and a frown, he whipped around towards Taran Zhu.  
  


“Yes,” he spoke, with as much control as he could. “I do have something to say.”

And the court stilled.

“Honorable Taran Zhu. August Celestials.” He refrained from spitting the next word out, “Spectators from all across Azeroth. I have heard everything you have heard. I have seen what you have seen.”

_An exercise you all are incapable of._

He turned towards his Accuser. “Tyrande Whisperwind has presented a strong and damning case against me. A case that has roused some

_( all )_

of you to anger and thoughts of revenge. Thoughts

( and attempts )

of my death. I do not blame you for hungering that.”

He feared his tongue would slip in the wrong direction, his muscles painfully strained to keep himself still, keep himself from dropping his metaphorical merchant box and spilling the contents all over the courtroom. And nobody would care what Garrosh truly carried with him. Only about the one item he chose to display.

Turning towards the tauren bull, he continued. “Baine Bloodhoof, who has little enough cause to do so, has with great earnestness presented a case not protesting my innocence, but asking for your understanding. For your compassion.

_( what a joke )_

For you, the jury and spectators, to look within your own hearts, and see that no one is completely free from blame.”

They never would. He was not one of them. He was a monster, an outcast, a brown-skinned Outlander in a world of white and green and teal and scale and fur. There were very few who had never shown their distaste of him.

He turned towards the princeling, and as their eyes locked, he could see the boy tense up.

“And Prince Anduin Wrynn, who by all rights should be foremost among those clamoring for my death,

_( stupid pup )_

has chosen to spend hours in my company. I attempted

( have I )

to slay him,

_( can’t turn back now )_

in a brutal, cruel, and painful manner. And what does he do?”

 _More than anyone,_ Garrosh shook his head. _Even if he too only saw me as a tyrant._

“He speaks to me of the Light! He tells me he believes I can change. He has shown me kindness when I offered hatred and violence.

_( play along, with what they understand, with what they want, with the image they have carved of you, just play along you have already started just pl )_

It is because of him that I stand before you, facing what I expect to be a pronouncement of my death, as a warrior, not as a broken slave.”

He lifted his shackled hands, and gave the princeling a slight bow. And with that duty covered, he turned once more to face another part of the crowd. His throat struggled with controlling his voice, keeping it neutral, words clawing at it to erupt. His hand grabbed at the chains again, tightening, as if looking for aid into keeping the venom and hatred out of his voice.

“Oh, yes. I know full well how much blood is on my hands. I know

_( what of you )_

exactly the magnitude and the consequences of what I have done.”

_( and what of all of you, what of the court, what of those that did the same to me and my people, am i truly to stand down here and apologize, as if i have somehow done more wrong than those who have razed villages and pushed mY PEOPLE TO )_

He let the flow of thoughts swirl upon themselves, a whirlpool of fresh outrage and anger. He took in a deep breath, his entire body tensing.

“And now, here at this moment, when I am free to speak my mind and heart,

_( free like a caged worg )_

I tell you true: I regret…

_( my failures, the deaths of my men, the loss of the war, my own downfall, being dragged here, this joke of an existence that i )_

_**Nothing!”**_  
  


  


_**Chaos.**_  
  


It had all descended in chaos.

_Let it._

A slight smirk formed around his tusks, only to immediately start fading.

He may be chained like a rabid worg, but he could still infuriate them with his howls until they would finally be bothered to put him down.

And howl he would.  
  


“Yes! _Yes!”_

His howl, that of a Hellscream, loudly echoed through the large hall.

“I would destroy _a thousand_ Theramores, if it would bring the Alliance to its knees! I would hunt down _every_ night elf whelp that bleats on the face of this world and silence their mewling forever! I would banish _every_ troll, _every_ tauren, _every_ simpering blood elf and greedy goblin and shambling walking corpse!”

Between the force of his bellows and striking them where he knew it would hurt them, those in the audience indeed rose into uproar.

Good.

Once more, a grin curled around his tusks.

_Good._

He glanced around the temple arena, enjoying witnessing those who had been so upset by his empty words they had started standing, leaving, scurrying about like prey. His glance had darted past the Celestials, yet they remained unfazed. He could hear Taran Zhu’s hammer strike so hard, he expected splinters to fly throughout the hall.

He let out a loud, forced laugh.

He would mock them. Mock them to his final breath.

“The only ‘atrocities’ I regret are the ones I did not perform! The only thing that preys on me is that I was stopped before I could see the true Horde live again!”

He started pacing around, chains rattling, heavy boots falling on the stone floor, although any sound either may have produced was drowned out by the murmurs in the crowd. He paid no heed to their insults, their threats.

What is yet another cacophonous choir demanding he die?

With a deep breath, he screamed again, taunting, taking a minute amount of pleasure in their anger.

_“And what a world would that be! A world with glory, with no room for sniveling rats and backstabbing leeches! A flawless world, without any of you wretches!”_

And those wretches began yelping once more as Garrosh could not help but laugh.  
  


  


_**“Order!”**_

Hammer and gong forgotten, Taran Zhu’s own yell drowned out the uproar. Composed all throughout the trial, throughout the war, he had finally lost it. His glare looked past Garrosh, encompassing the entire audience, staring them down as a whole.

“You come to my land, burn it, destroy it, and then you cannot even control yourselves inside a sacred court! Who knew the Accused knows you so well he can play you on your fingers and indeed foresee this turning into a mere amusement faire! He has shown more respect to this land than any of you, for he bows his head to our gods and laws. So, if you do not settle down, I will have the Shado-pan help you along.”

Slowly, the hall began to quiet down. A pen of frightened chicken and rabbits, finally realizing the worg could never break free to eat them.

And Garrosh hoped they would let that shame and fear consume them, gnaw at them, swallow them as his own doubts and fears had for decades.  
  


Taran Zhu turned towards Garrosh, his tone harsh, yet barely louder than his normal.

“Garrosh Hellscream, your taunts and threats are as empty as a child’s tantrum in front of elements he is impotent against. I have heard what you have done, I have seen the man so hated by both the Horde and the Alliance - so passionately, they have taken to working together against old hatreds in order to bring you down. And yet your defiance, while it quite appears to send panic through everyone else, does little to faze me. I have dealt with worse outbursts from the fresh initiates I see in the Monastery every year. Now if you are done trying your best to aggravate these easily ruffled people, _Sit. **Down.**_ ”  
  


  


_“It will be your choice.”_

_Late night, early morning, whatever time it had been, Garrosh had found himself visited by a strange being. Human in appearance, but his skin dark, his features different than those of Stormwind or Theramore humans, and his clothing like nothing Garrosh had ever seen. Long, flowing, intricate robes, and a turban perched atop his head; a strange, otherworldly expression on his face, his arms crossed inside large, elegant sleeves._

_Garrosh had snorted. “Like what? Like it was my choice to wage war? Like it was my choice to be dragged to this pathetic trial?”_

_“No, Hellscream. A real choice.”_

_The man had untangled his arms, his hands revealing a soft bun, and a sunfruit. Garrosh’s body responded aggressively, still angry over the wasted meal from earlier, for little did it understand or care about the supposed poison. He had growled, “I am in no mood for your games, dragon.”_

_Wrathion had smiled, a hint of sharp canines glittering as they caught the dim light. “We have it laid out either way. It truly will be your choice.”_

_Choice… a good concept… a good change of pace…_

_Slender, black-brown hands with black clawlike nails had reached through the bars, holding the two foodstuffs. Garrosh’s eyes darted between them, and he had settled on grabbing the sunfruit with little hesitation. He had turned around, ending the talk, when the bun had hit him in the back of his head._

_“This was unrelated to my talk.”_

_Garrosh had shook his head in annoyance, picking the bun up from the floor._

_Wrathion had scratched at his goatee, “Or perhaps it should be, maybe-”_

_“Why not play your little games with your princeling?”_

_“He is too young for that, just yet.”_

_Garrosh had grunted in annoyance. “I wish to eat, and sleep.”_

_“I should be offended you dismiss me so easily!”_

_“Perhaps you still have time to accuse me of some crime before the sentencing, like your aunt or whatever she is to you.”_

_“Ah, dear Alexstrasza,” Wrathion had hummed on a melodic tone. “She had her choice too, of course.”_

_“The choice of accusing me of crimes long before my time,” Garrosh had spat._

_“That she did.” The other's tone had been melancholic, and his long robes had shuffled slightly. “I will leave you, then. But remember, son of Hellscream. This time,_  
  


_( my choice )_  
  


Garrosh eyed the judge blankly. He frowned, nostrils flaring.

Were it up to him, everybody in this court should be dead. If he was considered worthy of death, then so were they. Nobody was above it.

_Nobody._

If only he had his axe, his Kor’kron, once more, ah the chaos he would have sowed upon them. How he regretted ever showing mercy. Ever doubting himself.

They had not been worthy of his kindness. And now he saw it clearly.

The visions… The visions of the future he could have had…

When a tree is gnarled and rotten, cutting it down is a mercy. Cutting it down for a new tree to grow, healthy and proud.

He should have cut them all down, destroyed the disease from its roots, listened to those visions of a new, better world...

_His world._

His gaze darted swiftly towards Kairoz, the elegant elven body standing stiff, patient, next to the Vision of Time, one infuriatingly delicate hand resting gently atop an ornate dragon head.

The court still murmured, yelled, he could make threats out. And each time one would come louder, Taran Zhu smacked his hammer, quieting it down.

The pandaren had called for this spectacle in the first place.

And yet, he seemed no less angered by how it was unfolding than Garrosh himself.  
  


Ever so slowly, quietly, _obediently_ , Garrosh Hellscream sat back at the table.  
  


Kairoz eyed him curiously, his elegant eyebrows quirked. Slender, delicate fingers slid off the Vision of Time, a strange smirk thrown in Garrosh’s direction, his eyes trailing off and his smirk turning obnoxiously cocky once he locked gazes with Chromie.

Garrosh grabbed at his chains with one hand, his sulking not helping disprove the pandaren’s insult. Baine Bloodhoof sighed hard enough that the orc could not only hear it but indeed feel it shift the air around him.

“Ancestors know I tried my best, but you are impossible to work with,” the tauren muttered under his breath. “I will not blame myself if they lop your head off.”  
  


  


“Our verdict has been reached.”

Xuen’s booming voice quieted the hall somewhat, as they all awaited held breath and all to hear

_“Garrosh Hellscream is to live.”_


	2. Insanity, blessing for those born to hate

Like a pit of irritated beasts, the court devolved into chaos once more.

Garrosh sat back in his chair, snickering to himself, his amber gaze darting across the twisted visages.

Baine looked at him in obvious confusion, and back towards the Celestials.

Taran Zhu simply shook his head at the uproar, for once not attempting to quell it.

Kairoz’s smirk widened into a full grin, as Chromie plainly looked at him, frowning slightly.

“Congratulations, brother,” she chimed, “you have doomed us all. You and your protégé-“

“As opposed to you and your protégés?” Kairoz trilled in turn.

Garrosh silently watched the two bronze dragons bicker, a lopsided smile still on his lips. They continued their back and forth but the outrage in the court drowned their whispers out entirely. He could make nothing out, nor did he even truly wish to try. Days, weeks, years of threats to his life in vivid detail, certainly nobody in the court, not even a timeless dragon, could give him a never before heard take.  
  


And soon, Taran Zhu’s gong drowned out the outrage if only slightly. He spoke loudly, his voice carrying over all others, yet the anger he had displayed earlier had vanished. His voice was once more calm, impassive, neutral.

“If you all will, keep order, so that the Celestials may offer their _complete_ verdict.”

The chatter, the muttering, the angry shouts, all slowly died down.  
  


  


It was Xuen who walked forward first, positioning himself in the large empty space between Taran Zhu and the tables of the accusers and accused. He lifted his human arms to the side, palms outstretched, and wisps of translucent teal and snow-blue smoke rippled over his form, becoming what one could simply describe as a physical incarnation of a blizzard. The shapeless form slowly changed into a large tiger. Fur appeared to flow like iridescent liquid, in glimmers of blue and cyan and white, dissolving into tendrils of smoke which floated off him and dissipated into the air.

“Strength,” he spoke, and his voice carried. “It has taken strength from each of you to come here, relive these events, witness the pain and memories of others. In many of you, it will take strength to accept our verdict. It will take strength to embrace change. And such is my blessing to you.”

Nodding his blue head, Xuen turned incorporeal once more, plumes of white-cyan smoke swirling through the arena and dissipating over everyone present. Once more, his chosen humanoid form remained instead, and he walked back to his place of observation.  
  


The heavy hoofbeats of Niuzao’s yaungol form echoed through the hall, leaving a trail of white smoke in their wake. He stopped in the center, his head moving slowly from one side to another as he took everyone in.

A gentle bow of his large head, and he too was engulfed by white-black swirls. Too familiar, too unnerving, they stirred an instinctual response in Garrosh, his heart tightening in his chest, half expecting Niuzao to take the form of a Sha. _… but… that would not be possible… would it… ?_

An enormous black ox instead reared on its back legs and stomped back down onto the temple stone, sending a tremor throughout it and perhaps throughout the entire land. Glowing white-gold eyes focused on Garrosh.

“Resilience.”

And it would have been enough.

The word alone, and then his voice had driven it through.

Head reared back, the large ox snorted. “You have all displayed it. My blessing is, may you display it still in the face of obstacles to come.”

He reared once more and it felt as if the ground had physically shifted upwards with the lifted weight. Turning to smoke and to his humanoid form, as swirls of magic once more flew around the hall, Niuzao walked back to where he had stood throughout the trial.  
  


A tiny, chubby pandaren girl stepped forward. Yu’lon. Coming to a halt, she gave the court a bow, before dissipating into strands of green-white smoke. They encircled the center of the arena, spinning around the accused and his accusers and defender. Ethereal magic turned to glimmering, solid, jadelike scales, and a great cloud serpent now circled the arena. Tendril-like whiskers moved with nonexistent wind, as did strands of pure light emanating off her large head and back. The tip of her tail, a beautifully fanned out array of swirling smoke, almost cradled Garrosh.

“My blessing is wisdom.” And as she spoke, her voice was warm… Motherly, grandmotherly, sisterly, wifely all at once. Garrosh’s ears twitched and his gaze wandered down towards his chains. He had not heard a voice this kind since he was a sickly child soothed by Greatmother Geyah. He was certain, were the land itself to ever speak, it would speak in this same way.

“You may not understand our decision, but perhaps one day you will. For know this. Were we to decide on death this day, as you all hoped we would, as you all desired, as you all demanded… It would have been a great tragedy. Loss of life itself is tragic, and we cannot condemn one more to that.

“But as long as there is life, there is change, and learning, and growing. In all of you. As long as Garrosh is to live, he, too, can wisen. I grant you all the wisdom to find the answers and peace you seek, in something else than continuing a cycle of death and blind hatred.”

She bowed her head courteously. Her tail was the first to dissipate, then the now familiar mist once more filled the arena, gently and almost affectionately ruffling clothes and hair. Again a small pandaren child, she walked back next to the other Celestials.  
  


Chi-ji’s slender, elvish form stepped forward. His arms shot to the side, the golden cape following them, stretching out, filling the entire hall as it grew into large wings of shimmering white and solid black. In front of them now stood the true form of the Great Red Crane. He bowed his ornate head, the blood orange feathers that adorned it fluttering gently with the movement. His large wings began beating slowly; long, delicate toes lifting off the arena floor. Many closed their eyes, welcoming the cool, fresh breeze. Ever so gently, his feet touched the floor again, the large wings slowing in their movement.

“My gift to you is healing, may your pain and turmoil, inner or outer, be washed away like dirt under rain. And may healing guide your future instead of suffering. That choice is up to each and every one of you.”

With a final, powerful flutter, his wings appeared to explode in innumerable ethereal feathers of pure light, spreading across the arena, dissipating as they showered those present. Once more a humanoid, Chi-ji walked back to his place.  
  


Xuen spoke yet again, his voice as cool as a flowing spring echoing in the Temple.

“Strength, resilience, wisdom and healing. Those are our blessings to you. Forgiveness - of Garrosh Hellscream, of each other, of yourselves - will have to come from within.”  
  


  


The court was finally silenced for a good moment, as they all meditated upon the blessings. Taran Zhu looked about the hall, taking in the miracle that was silence. Briefly, he locked eyes with Garrosh, then turned to look at the bronze dragons.

"Chronormu. Kairozdormu. Care to enlighten the rest of us on _your_ stance? You have agreed to help in this trial from what I assume was not entirely kindness and selflessness."

At once, both golden heads turned towards the Judge, then at each other. His ever present smirk widening, Kairoz nodded his head in Chromie’s direction, and her response came in the form of a wide hand gesture for him to continue.  
  


Gently placing his hand on one of the decorative bronze dragons on the hourglass contraption, Kairoz began on a sweet tone. "The choices of which events to show were… challenging, in my case. With more freedom, with more time, I could have shown you timelines where this trial played out differently, and you all chose to ignore the Celestials' blessings and wisdom, never to admit your own faults in this, never to heal. I could show you timelines where Garrosh Hellscream had been killed much earlier in his reign, only to be replaced by bloodier tyrants. Or I could show you timelines where Garrosh Hellscream had been readily supported and accepted by all of his people, and brought on an era of prosperity to Horde and Alliance both, an era so wondrous that in those timelines he is considered the greatest leader in all of Horde’s history."

With a soft tap on the head of the bronze ornament, he took his hand away and turned to the Celestials. "I see no need for such cheap tricks as my sister has employed, bringing other timelines into this and attempting to pass them as solid evidence. I believed the truth would speak for itself and hold weight on its own - and, were it unable to, then no cheap trick on my part would serve, either.

“During the Cataclysm, we dragons have lost our powers to accurately tell the future, or to outwardly influence it. Some of my kin believe that is a great loss, that the world cannot survive without our guidance. Others believe the world can thrive without such interference, and that each and all of you here today have it within you to create the future. It is, after all, called the Age of Mortals.

“Myself, the Celestials, and the last son of the Earth Warder, we all believe justice has been served this day. And even some of you mortals have stated you believe Garrosh Hellscream can change." His irritating lopsided smile returned, his eyes glittering as he added, "Only time will tell… 

“For now, however, I believe I have a matter of utmost importance to address outside of the court, that may otherwise interfere with the proceedings. If I may be excused,” he bowed his golden head slightly and elegantly walked out of the arena, robes and golden hair flowing.

A dragon, Garrosh mused, would be something he would much enjoy being. Answering to no one, respected by all. So caught in thought, his forced smile started slipping as he still stared absently at the place Kairoz had stood in.  
  


A high-pitched sigh that irritated his ears echoed through the arena, as the little gnome-dragon began speaking in turn.

“What my brother says is, of course, true in a way. I am certain our father could give a better speech about this, but I also know it is not his place to do so.

“Once, us bronze dragons did indeed have the power to see all timelines and all events, know for certain what would transpire in any timeline, change timelines altogether. Now we are little more omniscient or clairvoyant than any of you. Whether or not my brother’s particular feelings and predictions are correct does not ultimately matter, for he is unfortunately right in one regard. The power to change his fate now fully lies with Garrosh, and we will all be surprised one way or another, I am certain. And-”

“Not if we put a stop to it now.”  
  


The smile on Garrosh’s lips faded completely, his brow now furrowed. While he heard the entirety of the court shuffle and shift around, he did not need to turn to look at who had spoken.

Not at all.

For he knew the voice, the overconfident tone intimately well… His amber eyes instead shot up towards the Judge.  
  


Taran Zhu’s ears and features shifted with visible annoyance. Garrosh snorted halfheartedly. So much for forgiveness. But at least the pandaren and the Celestials could see for themselves a small fragment of the disrespect he had dealt with for years. Good. And indeed, Taran Zhu did not take kindly to the interruption, his brows furrowing deeply as he eyed Thrall.

The shaman continued. “You wish him to walk free. I wish for orcish justice, as did High Overlord Saurfang. I wish to challenge Garrosh Hellscream to mak’gora.”

Taran Zhu shut his eyes and rubbed his snout with his fingers in frustration, as the Celestials exchanged glances.

“I accept.” Garrosh’s response had come firmly yet uncharacteristically quiet. He did not stand, he did not turn, he continued to eye the pandaren, whose hand now slid down his face almost pulling it off.  
  


The Celestials exchanged glances, perhaps speaking quietly through means mortals could not comprehend, or simply each of them knowing exactly what that entailed. They nodded slowly at each other before Xuen spoke.

“Very well. We will allow it. However, not to the death. The world has seen enough death, and our verdict was final. Garrosh Hellscream is to live. 

“But you _may_ partake in your tradition.”


	3. Singing a lost song in the words of a stranger

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ rather graphic depictions of violence in this chapter ]

“I hope you know this is foolish. Win or lose, you will only prove the accusers correct... That you are nothing but a bloodthirsty savage,” Baine stated gravely. Warning, advice, or simply a statement in contempt, Garrosh could not tell. Nor did he really care.

The temple was once again cleared of any benches or tables, and nothing but the open arena remained. Whoever had chosen to witness the fight lined the edges, some with clear excitement on their faces, others with less easy to read expressions. Garrosh’s eyes wandered across the many figures. This indeed had become nothing but a spectacle, and at this point it had started to bore him.

He lazily shook his head.

“I was challenged. I have to accept.”

“You could refuse.”

“I am an orc,” he answered indifferently. “And besides… Him and I, we still have a score to settle.”

Baine flicked his ears and narrowed his eyes. After a moment’s silence, he shook his head dejectedly and walked towards a Shado-pan guard, retrieving a bundle from him. He walked back towards Garrosh in silence, the heavy hoofsteps echoing uncomfortably throughout the temple.

“Here,” Baine offered him the clothed weapon. Snorting, Garrosh snatched it out of the tauren’s hands. He began tearing the frail cloth off in anger, ready to see what pathetic blade they had allowed him.  
  


His fingers stopped dead as the last layer of cloth came off. Fingers trembling against his will, he caressed the engravings in the hard steel, finger running down the long, curved, scarred blade.

“Where did you…?”

“You left it in the chamber of Y’shaarj. Some goblin picked it up and flipped it for a good sum before it made its way to me, if you really must know. I wanted to…”

The tauren flicked his ears and snorted as his brow furrowed in anger. “It’s yours by right, Hellscream.”

Garrosh curled his fist around the handle and swung the axe. It felt alien after months in which the only thing his hands had held had been food bowls and chains. The axe, at the very least, still felt deadly.

He brought it up to eye level, running a finger down its ridged back. Deadly, indeed. And he would use it to bring death upon his foes once more.

“Do me a favor, Garrosh. Cooperate with me on this one request,” Baine spoke quietly.

As if… _But… supposedly owe him that much. For retrieving Gorehowl if nothing else._

“What request?” Garrosh asked, not even looking at the tauren.

“Do not strike first. Let him do it.”

The orc whipped his head towards the tauren, amber eyes fixed on him, but Baine avoided meeting his gaze, ears flicked back, eyes pointed downwards. Garrosh hissed, “What kind of coward do you take me for? I cannot do that.”

“You have to do that. Trust me on this one.”

Exhaling sharply and shaking his head in anger, Garrosh clenched his fist onto the axe tighter, his answer coming as a growl. “I’ll consider it.”  
  


  


Proudly, Garrosh walked towards the center of the arena, his muscles tingling with anticipation.

No more lies, no half-truths, no picking and choosing to show things out of context. No social games everyone around him had mastered while he had apparently skipped out on those lessons altogether.

This, he understood.

Gorehowl, the real Gorehowl, still felt strange in his grip, as if he had not held it for decades. The Old God had granted him a better, indestructible weapon, born of the same energies as the Sha. And he had accepted it, as if he had much choice in the matter. Back then, an axe made of the eyes and spine of a shapeless being had felt superior.

That weapon may have indeed been indestructible, and shadow magic may have poured out of it in swirling vortexes, disorienting those that Thrall had brought to end his life not so long ago.

But that weapon was not Gorehowl.

He threw the axe in the air slightly, catching it, and as his grip eased in a more natural place, the ancestral weapon began to once more feel like an extension of him.  
  


“Ready when you are,” Garrosh smirked. Yet it faded almost immediately. “Let’s be done with it.”

“I hate that it has come to this, Garrosh. You had good in you once.”

Garrosh only offered a grunt in response. He had no love for empty words. Especially coming from one such as

The son of Durotan charged, and Garrosh parried the blow as if it were nothing. His muscles ached to strike back. But perhaps Baine was correct. Perhaps he, too, should play the pitiful wounded wretch part. It sure worked for everyone else.

The Doomhammer swung again and Gorehowl parried it with a loud clang. Garrosh shoved back against the blow, fangs gritting. Thrall stumbled back, catching his footing, and Garrosh took the moment to pace off to the side, shift his weight and widen his stance. Muscles tensed again, he waited for Thrall to recover.

_Taunt him._

A peon could catch on to the baiting by now, and Thrall certainly must have - hence his hesitation.

_TAUNT **H**_

“Doomhammer must be twisting and turning in his grave seeing his hammer go to waste. Then again, what’s one more disappointed elder to you.” Garrosh smirked, a fake, forced, irritating, disdainful smirk. “No wonder the ancestors forsook us with one like you leading the Horde.”

Thrall charged in response, and Garrosh parried, kicking him away unceremoniously once more. The motion and momentum made both of them struggle to regain posture. Garrosh swung Gorehowl as counterbalance, and the axe hummed.

He stopped moving and adopted a wide stance.

The familiar hum had stirred his blood, his thirst for combat. Muscles tensed, legs now aching with the thirst to rush in, to fight, not keep dancing around like a coward. Three defensive strikes surely were enough.

He leapt forward, his legs springing with the tension and bottled up anticipation. Gorehowl screamed loudly with the wind of the motion, and Garrosh let loose a brief, bestial yell to accompany it.

The clash of metal on metal drowned the sounds out. Sparks flew as Gorehowl’s blade scraped the side of the Doomhammer. Garrosh recovered swiftly, swinging again, and again, and again. And Gorehowl wailed with each arching swing, as Warsong weapons do, and in that moment, he forgot all about his predicament; all that remained was the haze of battle, the thirst for blood, the court now nothing but an arena. The chatter had either quieted down by itself, or his rushing blood had blocked his ears. 

All he focused on was the battle, and his anger. 

His anger over being thrown into this court. 

Swing. Wail. 

His anger over this entire mockery. 

Swing. Wail. 

His anger over every insult. 

Swing. _Wail._

Every stab in the back. 

Swing. _Wail._

Thrall had been his friend, _his brother_. 

Swing.  
  


_Wail._  
  


Wail, like he had when Thrall had told him he would be Warchief. Wail, like his had fallen on deaf ears as he pleaded. _Wail_ , as his men did on battlefields. _Wail_ , as the gates of Orgrimmar did as they fell. _Wail_ , as did his generals and Kor’kron when their own struck them down. _Wail_ , as _he_ did when denied an orc’s death.  
  


The axe struck true.

Solid blade sliced through Thrall’s robes and caught his thigh on the way down. Good. _Good._ Befitting a coward who wears dresses and hides behind the hems of others. _Let the son of Durotan_

Slammed in the side of the head with a full hit of the Doomhammer, Garrosh lost his balance and focus. His flank stung with a second strike, from the opposite side, painfully knocking the air out of him. Wheezing, he stumbled back, shaking his head and blinking against the blurring and darkening vision. He couldn’t let the pain get the better of him. His side stung with every attempt at a breath, yet his body soon had the limitations figured, settling on quick, shallow, wheezing breaths with short painful pauses in between. His vision slowly recovered, but not fully.

He had at the very least bought himself a moment to recover by crippling Thrall’s leg.

Gripping Gorehowl tighter, he let loose a short, sharp, painful scream, charging forward again. He twisted his torso mid run, shoulder making contact with Thrall’s chest, the full force of his bulk buckling the other orc over. Garrosh stumbled, almost collapsing himself as his flank stung in protest and his breath cut even shorter.

A hit of the Doomhammer caught his shin before he could retreat, and he found himself half jumping half limping away. The pain was bearable, the hit had not been powerful enough to fracture bone. But his muscles still hurt immensely. With a pitiful waddle, he shifted his body around to face his foe once more.

Sore muscles, sore _bones_ , Garrosh cursed his predicament under his breath. Months away from the heat of battle and regular practice, months wasting and rotting in a jail cell, had stunted and crippled him more than any of the feeble hammer blows. His chest still struggled with quick, painful breaths. His legs quivered, his arms felt heavy, leaden, and holding the axe up was a task harder than he remembered. Yet he could not drop it. A fallen weapon was to stay on the ground, and he could not afford to put himself at such a disadvantage. He had to _end this._

Thrall stumbled to his knees and legs, his features twisted in a snarl as he looked up.

“I’ve given everything for the Horde thousands of times over only to see you abandon and destroy it and spit in its legacy and on the name of its heroes, see you spit on the name of your father and his sacrifice!”  
  


Something within Garrosh had snapped so violently he was certain it would be outright physically audible. His pained body was forgotten in the haze of primal fury. He jerked his head like an angered wolf, baring his fangs in a bestial snarl, and began pacing restlessly in a wide circle around the other orc.

“ _ **You**_ ’ve given everything?”

Garrosh gritted his teeth against the rage boiling up inside him. His fist clenched the axe handle tighter, nails digging into the leather wrappings. He leapt forward and swung carelessly, the blade of the axe ricocheting against the hammer.

_“ **I** abandoned it?”_

Swing. Strike. Sparks flew everywhere as the weapons clashed.

_“YOU abandoned the Horde!”_

Swing. Strike. Sparks.

_“You abandoned **ME!** ”_

Swing.

_“You left me to pick up your pieces, “_

Strike.

_“ fix your messes, “_

Sparks.

_“ rebuild the city and Horde YOU left behind, “_

Swing.

_“ and NOW you’re back to take it all away from me and say everything I have done for the Horde, everything I’ve given it, just. wasn’t. up. to. yoUR. STAN **DARDS!**_ ”

Paving stones shot up. 

Startled, Garrosh’s mind took a moment to tell his body to move.

And a moment had been too long a time.

The stones sprung at him, gripping him like a giant hand, squeezing him, crushing him. His muscles may have been strong enough to hold back many things even wounded, but magic had always been stronger. Magic had always been something he could not fight against.

His hand grabbed onto the stone, pulling and pushing at it. He would not go down without trying, as futile and pointless as it may have been against the tightening grasp of solid stone.

Painful, shivering muscles could no longer do anything at all to fight it. Pain like he had never felt before shot through him as he felt several bones snap. Gritting his teeth against the pain, he at least decided he would not give Thrall the satisfaction of hearing him cry out despite how desperately his body wanted to do so.

Thrall had taken everything away from him throughout the years. And now he was taking his life.

But he would never take his dignity.

His body could no longer muster the power to draw air in between the painful ribs and the pressure. Every attempt was for naught, his vision beginning to fade under the pain and straining. His heartbeat, each hastened, desperate flutter, rung in his ears.

His left hand still clawed at the stone pointlessly. Fingertips, raw and bloody, scraped with frantic desperation at the rocks crushing him. His right hand was somehow still clutching onto Gorehowl, yet in the primal fear that had gripped him and drowned him, his mind had not even thought of trying to use the axe for anything… as if it would make a difference, even if he  
  


_**“GO’EL!”**_  
  


The paving stones crumbled, and Garrosh with them. His hands and knees groaning in protest at the fall, his lungs and ribs stinging from the rapid breaths. His right palm, now open, was still resting on Gorehowl’s hilt. He grabbed tightly onto it once more as if the axe could offer grounding and safety.

He weakly looked up, at the scene before him. Baine Bloodhoof was standing between him and Thrall, tail swishing in what Garrosh assumed to be anger. No doubt, anger that someone had put a stop to it before Thrall could finish him off…

His eyes wandered absently for the someone, surely they would be - ah, the broken draenei Farseer, Nobundo, was standing on the side, arms raised and hands pointing at him. A _draenei_ undid the spell. _Of all things._

Garrosh shook his head violently, trying to clear the fog, yet all he managed was to almost stumble over, his body weak and broken. He had to get up before somebody else would take advantage of his state. He had already heard everyone in this court would do so if only given the chance.

Leaning against Gorehowl, he stood up slowly, pathetically slowly, on unsteady legs. Foggy gaze darted across the hall. His eyes still failed him, everything was a barely recognizable blur. But at least his ears could finally pick up sound again.  
  


“I will not stand for another dishonorable death.”

“Yet he killed your father… my brother.”

Garrosh looked towards Baine, in time to see him shake his massive head slowly, flicking his ears before he spoke.

“It was Hellscream’s fury that dragged my father into the arena, but it was Magatha’s poison that struck my father down. And while Garrosh claims to not have known about that, you knew full well what you were doing when you decided to ignore the rules of mak’gora.”  
  


Garrosh spat on the ground. Wiped his lips. Looked at his hand, at the blood. His hand was shaking uncontrollably, but he could not tell if with pain, fright, or anger that much stronger.

His fingers curled around Gorehowl tighter, more pain shooting through him at the gesture. Thrall stood in front of him, still eyeing him, while Baine was going on about who knows what. Who cares what. He could cover the distance with one leap, end it all with one swing. And then nothing would matter. Not this mockery. 

Not that they would kill him straight after. That would be a mercy.

He tensed his painful, shaking legs and lifted Gorehowl in preparation.

A hand on his own.

It had startled him. Thrown him off focus. It was a hold so tiny and miserably inadequate, it could have never stopped him physically, not even in this state. It had been the surprise alone. And looking down, he bared his fangs in anger at the figure, one he should have expected.

Anduin Wrynn, shaking his head slowly. Insultingly tiny next to him. He could swat him away like a bothersome fly, with a single, dismissive flick of his hand, and then he could resume the fight.  
  


So, then-  
  


He shook his head to clear it, snorting. He looked down at Anduin, and back towards Thrall. He could still charge, he could still finish this. And then nothing past that mattered. He would at least die satisfied. Honorably. One of his greatest foes struck down, and him facing against the waves of those who would no doubt seek vengeance for the world’s ‘ _greatest hero_ ’, its ' _savior_ '. A death befitting a true orc.

_A true orc would never employ magic in mak’gora._

Anger flowed through his veins again, and his muscles tensed. He would _END_ this-  
  


The tiny hand on his arm gripped tighter, firmer. Garrosh’s nostrils flared as he breathed quickly, angrily, painfully. A _human_ could not _possibly **understand**_ -

With a primal howl loud enough to shake the temple to its foundations, Garrosh slammed the axe into the floor. The metal sliced through stone, resonating with its own mournful howl throughout the now silent hall. The sound bounced against bare stone and returned, reverberating upon itself and amplifying, at first harmonically, then slowly losing synchronisation until it became an unsettling cacophony reminiscent of some agonizing beast, before finally dying out.  
  


Garrosh Hellscream turned to face the Celestials, lowering his head, for he knew it would appear humble enough to please them. 

“You said you would allow me to live, and perhaps walk free.”

Words came out labored, and each vibration of his throat and chest hurt enough to affect his vision again. He looked up at the Celestials, throwing his arms to the side, although they were still shaking.

“Whatever punishment you decide on, I will take it.”

Were he to strike Thrall down in this moment, he would never be given any other chance. But were he to walk free some day, as they had promised, then he would have all the time for vengeance. Without witnesses. Without a court.

And if he struck quickly enough, without magic.


	4. Down my dreams the velvet raven flies

Full force, seething with anger, he thrust the shovel in the soft ground, resting his heavy hand on it, wiping his brow of sweat. He took a moment to inspect his work - the lined up, deep holes. Not as evenly spaced as he had imagined them, but it did not much matter. They would fulfill their role regardless.  
  


“The blossoms are beautiful this year, do you not think so?”

Garrosh turned his large frame to look at the pandaren woman walking in his direction. Wearing a soft silk dress whose beauty even he could begrudgingly admire, her hair braided and decorated with cherry blossoms, and in her arms carrying a large woven basket full of saplings.

“I have not seen them this beautiful in a long time,” she smiled warmly, lowering the basket onto the ground.

Reluctantly, Garrosh turned around to look at the older parts of the cherry orchard. The trees were indeed in full bloom, shades of pink and white, their fragrance carried by the soft sea breeze that fluttered through them, salt and sweet blending together to form an irritating, overwhelming scent. He hummed in polite agreement, although he had not seem cherry trees before in his life, and cared little for them now. But he assumed the woman would know of her own land.

“You can take a lunch break if you desire. I already told the Shado-pan you have my permission for it.”

He looked in the woman’s direction once more. She was kneeling by one of the holes he had just dug, a small sapling now sheepishly peeking from within it, as she pushed soft soil around it with her furred hands.

_Hands that would crush so easily were he to strike even with a weapon as dull as the shovel, and her form would—_

Garrosh flared his nostrils as he shook his head harshly, hoping that would vanquish his stray thoughts. He cleared his throat, speech coming hard to him after hours of tirelessly working. “Thank you,” he muttered. “I will, the heat is getting to me.”

“Of course,” the woman smiled warmly at him, before turning her focus to the sapling again. “You may find your guard a little up the hill there. She has your meal ready.”  
  


  


Under a large cherry tree, sitting cross legged on a small bench, a bowl of rice in one hand and sticks in another, the Shado-pan guard smiled warmly at him as he approached. 

She gestured with the chopsticks towards a little stool, stacked with plates and bowls of varied foodstuffs. “Your meal is here, and fresh cold water in that flask there. Take as long as you like.”

Muttering an acknowledgement, he grabbed a bowl of dumplings and sat down on the opposite end of the bench, the wood creaking loudly under his weight. 

He grabbed a dumpling between two fingers, shoving it in his mouth as his gaze drifted over the orchard and the lines of freshly planted saplings and the woman doing her work.  
  


He of course thought his punishments stupid. He, of course, thought _the whole process_ stupid. Oftentimes he felt Taran Zhu’s interference and request for a trial was the biggest insult life could have possibly thrown at him.

He had not expected the court to see his way - they had not done so all the time, of course, but some had perhaps understood his choices. Yet even found guilty of the few things that were true, he had not expected the Celestials to grant him freedom.

_“People change as long as they have the freedom and life to do so.”_

Of course, that had not stood well with many in the court. Gods are too far removed from mortals to understand the pain he had caused, many have said. ‘He should not walk free again. He should die. He should suffer as we have.’

_“Then grant him mortal punishments as you see fit, as long as it does not impact our verdict.”_

A pandaren had suggested he dig ten thousand holes. Those present had buried many because of him, and thus, he should dig holes to bury those left to bury. It had been the human princeling, Anduin Wrynn, who had spoken confidently in response to that.

_“More death and anger would serve nothing and teach no lesson. Resentment does not share space with regret. His actions have destroyed the land as much as they have destroyed the people. Have him dig holes then, but dig them to plant new life and new hope.”_

And Chi-ji, the Crane, had agreed with the boy.

Garrosh, of course, had found it stupid. _A token punishment meant to restore hope to others, and break him further? He, a Warchief of the Horde, digging holes? **Insulting.**_  
  


“Do you wish me to teach you how to hold chopsticks?”

The Shado-pan guard’s voice had startled him, snapping him out of his thoughts, and coming to, he realized he had squeezed the last dumpling hard enough to break the dough. Angered, he hurled it back into the bowl, wiping his hand on his ragged pants. “No, I’m not--”

_I’m not here to make friends_ , is what he had wanted to snap back on a disdainful tone.

It angered him. This entire predicament. The way these Pandaren treated him as if he was their dinner guest, when every living thing on Azeroth knew the truth. The insulting way the guard did not even bother to _guard_ him, but sat on benches reading books or eating rice cakes as he dug and dug _and dug-_

“I’m,” he took a deep breath, biting back his anger although it took all of his will. He continued on a controlled tone. “I’m not sure I could even hold those.”

“Nonsense! If my uncle Zhou can hold these in his fat hands, you will have no problem!” the guard answered cheerfully, grabbing a spare set of chopsticks off the stool, then grabbing his hand.

His first instinct had been to pull it away, snap in anger, jump at her and show her the respect he wanted to be shown… but he knew even with her smaller size, the Pandaren soldier would fight as fiercely as one of his own kind.

Her small, velvety hands pushed his fingers closed around the foreign eating utensils, holding his hand as she guided it closer to the bowl.

“Now, you move your fingers this way-”

He barely paid heed to her instructions, watching her hands hold his own. 

She _could_ fight as fiercely as one of his own, had she wanted. But instead, she wanted _this._  
  


  


Heralded by an endless choir of crickets, the evening chill had started to set in, and he welcomed it, pausing his work, closing his eyes, breathing in the cool air and the fragrance. It was too sweet for his taste, sometimes causing his head to ache when the blossoms were hit a little too hard by the breeze, but he had already learned of its peculiarities, the way the evening air gave it a fresher hint while the midday sun made it a lot worse. And thankfully, the days were growing shorter and the evenings longer.

His Pandaren guard was singing some tune he could not understand the words of, but at least he did not have to work in silence, with only his thoughts to keep him company.

He clenched his fists on the shovel. No. No. This was not something he should accept. This… _this insult._

Howling, he threw the shovel as far as he could. The singing stopped. So did the crickets. Only the howl of the wind answered.  
  


“Have you hurt yourself?”

He took his face out of his hands and looked up at the Shado-pan. He had not even realized when he dropped to his knees. Yet her question angered him.

Had he hurt himself?

His muscles were sore with the repetitive work. That cursed, dull, repetitive work for weeks now. His chin itched with the rough sprouting beard. His head itched with the sweat trapped in his growing hair. His whole body itched and stung from the relentless sun. His spirit was nearly broken. That was what they wanted, though, so they would at least be happy. But the worst had to be the insultingly good work the healers had done after that insult of a ‘mak’gora’, mending his broken body and bones enough for him to regain his strength and yet the deep, dull, unrelenting pain would perhaps never fade. _If only he would find his bite again—_

“Oh, dear. Yes, yes, this one is no good anymore. Bent and dull.”

Dejectedly, he looked over to the other pandaren. She was cradling the shovel like a child, not even looking at him.

He snapped furiously. _“It’s not the damned shovel, it’s—“_

“If a yak is calmly pulling a cart, the fly biting its rump may just cause it to flail.”

Garrosh gritted his teeth painfully, pressing his lips together.

“I will have the girls set you a warm bath. And tomorrow, you can rest all day,” the woman said kindly, wandering back towards the pagoda in the middle of the orchard.

Tired eyes trailed towards his guard.

“Forgive me, I-“

“Ah, nothing to apologize for. But, you did not answer me. Did you hurt yourself?”  
  


He shook his head slowly, looking down at his arms, the waved scars left by the corruption seemingly mocking him. He swallowed the remaining anger before speaking, looking up at her.

“Do the Sha still affect this land?”

“Oh no, your digging in the Vale, and taking that… _thing_ away, it unleashed a lot of Sha energy back then but since then it has been gone,” she answered rather cheerfully.

He lowered his gaze, and a moment later the guard cleared her throat and added, “Well, _mostly_! I am certain something as ancient and powerful as the Sha would not simply vanish so easily!”

“I was angry for no real reason just a moment ago…”

“I too would be angry were I the one forced to dig an entire garden by myself. No need to look for more complex explanations, there.”

She offered him a kind smile, and he breathed in deeply. Perhaps there was some truth to her words, as crass as they had been. And yet, the doubt lingered...  
  


“There is a visitor here to see you, Garrosh,” the voice of the other woman announced loudly from behind the pagoda.

He whipped his head in her direction, his gaze struggling for a moment to focus. Recognition flooded him and soon with it, humiliation,.. and once more, anger.

With whatever pride he could still muster, he slowly stood up, eyeing the approaching figure with a scowl twisted around his tusks.

It would figure the princeling would wish to come and witness him in such a state, and no doubt come to take pleasure in it. He sneered, baring his fangs at the other’s approach.

“Why are you here, human?” 

“I missed our talks,” he answered with an infuriatingly false cheer.

Garrosh clenched his fists and growled at Anduin. “You missed boasting and mocking me. Well, I hope you quite enjoyed this show, too.”

The princeling eyed him blankly. “No, Garrosh. I missed our talks.”


	5. Find out the only way goes down

It looked beautiful, Anduin Wrynn had told the pandaren. Like a painting. Thank you, dear boy. Would you like to stay here for a few days? Of course.

Garrosh disliked pleasantries.

At this point in time, he had no patience for falsehoods, for lies, and that was all that pleasantries were. And he had to sit through them and do his best to hide his loathing. But for all the inconvenience, at least the pup had a gift for talking to people. He had managed to convince the Shado-pan to leave them to talk alone.

“Lay a hand on him, and I will shoot it off,” had been her parting words.

And Garrosh had no doubt she would. She had already made it clear on the first day here that she would not hesitate to stop him were he to try anything. And she had sealed it in with a demonstration. Shot an unfortunate crane fly into a stump from further away than the orc’s keen and trained eyes could even see it, and it had been enough of a statement. 

After her warning, she left the two of them alone, and Garrosh found himself missing the predictability and familiarity of shoveling dirt. He still had not a single idea why the boy was here.

“Walk with me, Garrosh.”

He felt there was little room for declining.  
  


They walked by the shallow, lazy stream that snaked through the orchard, the princeling skipping from stone to stone as he crossed it, his arms to the sides for balance, narrowly avoiding a dive. And the sudden realization that he was still only a child flooded Garrosh. Yet this time, it was not with disdain, nor pity, nor anger that a child had caused him this.

For once, it was simply that. A fact.

“What did your father have to say about this?” Garrosh grumbled, crossing the stream with one long step.

“I’ll figure that out when I return. I snuck off.”

The orc turned to look at him, flicking his ears back as his brow raised. “Again?” he asked simply.

“Mhmm,” the boy nodded, coming to a halt next to Garrosh, looking up at him.

“And you returned to the same place and person that got you hurt the first time around?”

The boy did not answer. He instinctively rubbed his shoulder with a hand and a low sigh escaped him. He started walking downstream in silence with a calm and measured pace. Garrosh’s gaze followed him, brow still raised, before he set off to catch up. Resuming his pace by the human’s side, following in the rhythm set by those short legs, the orc eyed the short figure quietly and curiously.

The boy picked up a stone and skipped it across the surface of the stream. Quietly watching the ripples where the stone had sunk, he then turned his head to face Garrosh. “You never answered me, why did you request to speak to me during your trial?”

Garrosh narrowed his eyes, the lines on his face deepening. He had been hoping to avoid more interrogations but it appeared he would not be as fortunate.

“I did answer. You are a servant of the Light, and perhaps the only person who would speak to me.”

No reply came. The mutual silence and apparent agreement on the topic yet lasted. Perhaps one day Garrosh would truly answer why he had requested the pup’s presence, and perhaps one day the pup would in turn share why he had so readily accepted. Although Garrosh knew the boy was kind bordering on stupid, he was not so certain that was the only reason.

They resumed walking slowly, still in silence. The ocean breeze whistled through the trees, and the grass and pebbles crunched under their feet. It passed for tranquil, but Garrosh knew his own displeasure at the situation, and could read the same in the boy’s tensed body.  
  


“Do you keep count of the trees?” The boy finally spoke, as they passed a row of fresh saplings quivering in the wind.

“What for? It will be over when it is over. And until then, it hardly matters. A hole is a hole.”

The boy stopped, turning around. Garrosh, too, stopped a few steps ahead, slowly turning his head to glance over his shoulder.

“Look,” the boy pointed, and the orc’s eyes followed.

All that he could see was the same landscape he had seen for the past few weeks. A large meadow between two mountain peaks, full of the disgusting pink-white blossoming trees. In the distance, gnarled, old trees that long since grew bitter and sterile, now only serving as food for silkworms. Closer, the trees in full bloom, raining petals with every breeze. And even closer, the patch they had forced him to dig up. He could not even begin to imagine what marvels the boy was supposedly seeing in place of it all.

“Look how many saplings there are.”

He looked. Was the boy playing stupid? Of course there would be saplings. He had dug for weeks on end, as the princeling himself had suggested. And having it rubbed in his face only angered the orc further.

“You say nothing matters until it is complete. But all these saplings would matter even like this. They already feed the bees, and birds, and when they grow, they will feed people, even if you were to not plant any others. It does matter.”  
  


Did it?

Garrosh clenched his fists.

Did it truly matter?

What stupid human game was the pup playing?

He was here, slaving away in the sun, to ensure strange people of a strange land he would never see again would eat for years to come. And now, suddenly, it mattered?

_Now, suddenly, it mattered._

What of when he had tried to ensure a future for his own people? Back then, it did not matter? Back then, when he had ordered his men to advance through Ashenvale to secure trees and land for his own? Back then, when he had his men fight tooth and nail for resources for his Horde to live and thrive, it did not matter? They could so easily look back on that, and deem him a worthless, cruel leader and put him on trial… But suddenly, a hundred trees mattered?

He shook his head in anger, looking at the boy. How could he insult him as such? He was an orc. A Warchief. What should have mattered was his effort for the Horde, his warring, his securing of food and resources for his own kin. The kin Thrall had doomed to an existence in the blistering desert just to keep his measly human friends happy. _The orcs_ had needed his effort! _They_ had needed him to provide by all means necessary! Not these... Pandaren he would never again meet.

The boy’s words cut deeper than he had expected.

Did he really expect him to crumble to his knees in newfound humility once he had seen the couple hundred pathetic saplings he had dug for?

“What should matter, is what I did for the Horde,” he growled, fighting his impulse to grab the boy and throw him across the field of saplings so he could more intimately admire it.

The whelp eyed him for a long time. Garrosh’s clenched fists and tensed muscles started trembling, the pain of endless war and endless work returning with a vengeance. 

His tired body was failing him, now, as well. Gritting his teeth, he turned away from the boy. He relaxed slightly, mostly from pure exhaustion.  
  


“Garrosh?”

He turned his tired eyes towards the human quizzically.

“I keep asking myself. Why did you order the attack on Theramore?”

Garrosh looked at him quietly. How could he explain to a simple human pup what war meant? What the reasoning was—

He shook his head slowly and lowered his gaze.

How could he explain his reasoning to _anyone_?


	6. And the weary drown

Anduin Wrynn had overstayed his welcome. Many times over. And Garrosh had been angered. At first.

The bath and meal the pandaren women had prepared him had gone lukewarm while he had tried to get the pup to scamper off. Eventually, he had reached a point he had decided he was too tired to care about dignity anymore, and had gone for the bath even with the unwanted audience. At least the pup had done him the service of turning his head around as he had undressed and entered the large iron tub.

Now dusk started to fall. Garrosh still lay in the tub, the water still somewhat heated by the many candles underneath. He found himself relaxed as his sore muscles and aching bones were soothed by the warmth and respite. Although he wished he could say the same about his ears.

The pup was seated not far away on a boulder, a large porcelain bowl of ripe cherries and plums in his lap. And he kept talking. And talking. _And talking._

Garrosh found himself wondering what sort of companionship the princeling had been keeping if he was so readily speaking to someone who had almost killed him. He no longer truly listened to the pup’s words... he had spoken of many things, and for the past who knows how long, he had spoken of Pandaria. A Pandaria seemingly different of the one Garrosh had observed. Where the orc could only see resources his people could use, resources that could never grow in the desolate wastes of Durotar, the boy saw beauty and wonder. An ancient land full of magic and intrigue.  
  


In slight annoyance, Garrosh rested his head on the edge of the tub and looked up at the violet sky and the stars that had started to show. He still disliked the sky of Azeroth, so different than the one he had grown under.

“Some people say that the stars can tell the future.”

His tired eyes slowly trailed towards the princeling, who was now also looking up. Unprompted, he continued.

“They say if you are born under a certain set of stars, your future is set for you, and you can never truly avoid it.”

Offering no acknowledgement, Garrosh sluggishly glanced back up at the sky. It felt like a foolish concept. Something humans or elves would tell each other for amusement.

_Then again, no matter what I do…_

He snorted in annoyance, furrowing his brow. “And what is your future, according to that?”

“I never had it told. Although... now I am rather curious.”

“You are always curious.”

He could feel the pup’s gaze wander to him. The boy paused for a long moment. Finally, silence.

“Sometimes, I find interesting things.”

“Hmm? Like what?” he muttered halfheartedly.

Truth be told, he did not wish to know. The human’s young voice was particularly jarring to his ears, and the relentless blabbering was scratching at his nerves in irritating ways.

But that one moment of dead silence had been worse. Nothing but the wind, the crickets, and his focus fully free to return to his aching bones, and stinging skin, and shattered pride.

“Well, the past year alone… The pandaren have so many stories. Very good ones, might I add. I never grew tired listening to them. And I had Horde champions aid me a few times, that was particularly interesting!”

_Horde champions, aiding a human? Aiding the prince of Stormwind?!_ Had he heard this while still Warchief, he would have ordered them dead on the spot. He would have struck them down himself, like the traitorous dogs they were! _Were I Warchief NOW, I would find out who-_

“And I find _you_ rather interesting, Garrosh Hellscream.”

He flinched. His ears twitched. Narrowing his eyes, baring his teeth, he hissed quietly. “Go away.”

“I can turn away again if you wish to-“

“I wish for you to leave me alone. Go back to your father!”

Big eyes fixed him silently. A long moment later, the boy slowly placed the bowl next to the stool and lightly slid off. He opened his mouth to say something, but decided against it, dejectedly shaking his head.

_**“Go!”**_

And with that, the human pup’s pathetic display concluded, as he turned and headed away.  
  


Garrosh relaxed again, sliding lower into the lukewarm water, running his fingers through his hair. 

_His hair._

Perhaps he should ask the pandaren woman for a knife to cut his hair off. Cut his beard off. And then cut his way out of here. He was certain even the so-famed Shado-pan were not that good as long as he had any form of weapon and determination.

He took in a deep breath and let it out in a long sigh.

He allowed his hand slide off his head and his arms fully submerge.

He could barely bring himself to get up in the mornings and eat whatever food his keepers had laid out for him. Sore muscles groaned with every movement. Pained bones ached with the chill breeze. He could barely lay here without feeling drained, more ambitious plans would definitely go nowhere. They certainly were entertaining to engage. But not caring seemed a lot more easier.

He slid lower in the tub until the water covered his chin and lips. The surface rippled with each breath. Tired eyelids sluggishly closed over amber eyes.

Perhaps the human pup was correct, and fate was set in the stars. Then, no matter what he did, he would reach it anyway.

_So why bother._


	7. Better hold on tight

The pandaren had kept her promise, and had not awoken him at the crack of dawn. It was well past noon… rather, whatever constituted of noon at this time of year, and he still lay on the soft bedding, staring out of the window, his eyes staring through the shadows everchanging on the blossoms.

A knock on the wooden framing of the paper door. Of course, merely a courtesy, as the door kept nothing out and even if it did, the pandaren would enter anyway.

And she did, holding a tray of bowls. She laid it down by his bed, picking up the tray from earlier without a word. Good. He did not feel like explaining why he had not touched anything. The pandaren always went out of her way to bring him something he would eat on the occasions he would not touch a certain dish, and he did not feel up to explaining why he did not touch ten on this day.

“You have a visitor again.”

Garrosh’s eyes lazily wandered to the doorway, and widened as he noticed the tiny mass of golden hair and blue and white clothes.

“I told you to make yourself scarce,” with a growl, the orc sat up, strands of his hair falling on his eyes. Angrily, he blew them aside.

“I did. While doing so, however, I happened upon a piece of information I could not pass up on.”

The pup entered the room unprompted and unwelcome, walking up to the bed. He dropped a rough linen bag next to Garrosh, and left the room without a word.

The pandaren followed the exchange with amusement, but all Garrosh could feel regarding it other than the confusion was anger. He was getting rather tired of the pup’s games. Aggressively, he grabbed the bag and pulled it open.

A bunch of small fragrant fruit greeted him, their waxy, red-orange peels shining once basked in the light. Garrosh looked at the bag with a baffled expression. Was the pup trying to poison him now, regretting his intervention back during the trial?

“Ah, sunfruit!” the pandaren exclaimed. “You should have told me you liked them, I could have gotten you enough to make you sick of them!”

Garrosh looked up at her, his confused expression not having departed his features. The woman still focused on moving dishes onto the tray, not meeting his gaze as she spoke. “Do you wish me to cut them for you, or do you prefer I bring you a knife?”

He snorted, placing the bag on the bed. “As if you would trust me with a knife.”

The pandaren slowly walked towards the door, pulling it open, “If you wanted to kill us, you would have long since done so with the shovel, or with your bare hands.”

Garrosh eyed her again, brows raised. He pressed his lips together. “I could take the knife, then. And tell the human to come in. He is not being very subtle, nor particularly clever, with his childish game.”

The official invitation was all the boy had needed, and he scurried back into the room like the pest he was, crouching to pass under the Pandaren’s arm. She briefly glanced at them with a slight smile, then left the room.  
  


Garrosh got up from the bed, walking slowly towards the small table that stood in the corner of the room. He dipped his hands in the bowl of clear water, rubbing his face, and looked up at the mirror hanging on the wall. The reflection of the human greeted him, now sitting on the bed. Garrosh shook his head in slight irritation, reaching for the rolled up towel by the bowl. He wiped his hands. “I cannot help but ask. Are you trying to settle your mistake and poison me yourself?”

“Not everyone is out to kill you, you know that?” 

Garrosh snorted, a corner of his mouth raising. _No. He, in fact, did not know._

The pandaren entered the room, walking next to him and placing a knife on the table. She gave him a slight bow of her head, and the same to the princeling, before leaving again.

Garrosh glanced towards the knife, and reached for it. It felt small and insultingly light in his hands, but the blade was shiny and polished, a good sign that it was at least sharp. He turned his attention back towards the pup. Pointing the knife at the fruit, he nodded his head upwards. “Go on, then, take one.”

With a sigh, the human picked one of the fruit, rolling it in his hands. He started picking at the stem, his blue eyes fixed on Garrosh’s. The orc shook his head, gesturing towards a fruit that had rolled a little distance off, a particularly large one with a blood orange tint. “That one.”

“That one? But it is the most ripe.”

Garrosh nodded. Obviously, the most ripe one would be what he would go for, and thus the most likely poisoned one. The pup’s hesitation only confirmed his theory further. He watched the boy put the first fruit down and reach for the one he had indicated.

“Do you want the knife?”

“No, thank you, it shouldn’t be that hard to peel,” he stated, his nails picking at the stem. The tough peel gave way, and he deftly pulled it off. Garrosh observed him closely. The boy took out a slice of the sunfruit, shoving it in his mouth. Perhaps disappointingly enough, he did not collapse, nor seize, nor foam at the mouth. And Garrosh visibly relaxed.

“Do you see?” the boy asked, mouth still full, before swallowing. “I told you, not everyone is out to kill you.” 

It was of course easy for the boy to speak. Still very much adored by his people, as far as Garrosh knew. He probably did not have to deal with enough assassination attempts to learn not to trust a meal, or a ‘friend’. Flaring his nostrings, Garrosh turned to face the mirror again.

“Do you want me to eat the whole thing, or can I save the rest for you?”

“Do as you will,” Garrosh muttered, his focus on his reflection. He ran a finger across his cheek, the rough hairs scratching his fingertips. 

Within the mirror, his eyes followed how the boy’s hand placed the fruit atop the bag. Part of him still expected the boy to drop dead. It could be a slow poison. _Or a poison that needed larger doses. Or one that did not affect humans. Or the pup had the antidote. ___

____

Pressing his lips together, he reined in his wild thoughts.

____

If the pup trusted him enough to visit him unarmed and without an escort, perhaps Garrosh could grant the same trust in turn. 

____

_Or perhaps that is what everyone expected._  
  


____

“Do you want me to ask for soap so you can shave?”

____

Garrosh turned his head slowly so he could look over his shoulder. He snorted, “Are you even old enough to know of that?”

____

“I am older than you seem to think me.”

____

Shaking his head, Garrosh turned to face the mirror again. “I told you before, human. You are still wet behind the ears from falling out of your mother’s womb.”

____

The boy sighed. “You keep throwing insults around like a snapping dog. But I cannot tell if you really believe in them or simply hurl them because you think that is expected of you.”

____

“ _Do you know how little it would require of me to snap your neck_?” Garrosh thundered, turning to face the boy.

____

“I also know it takes a lot more of you not to do that,” the boy stated calmly, almost coldly.

____

Garrosh’s eyes widened for a brief moment, then the scowl returned tenfold, his lips parting, fangs bared, as he growled. “Keep testing me, human, and you will see exactly how easy it is. You may not have noticed, but you no longer have the luxury of enchanted prison bars between us.”

____

“I doubt it was the bars alone that kept me safe, Garrosh.”

____

A furious snort escaped the orc in response, every muscle in his body tensing, his grip on the dagger harsh enough he could shatter it if he so wanted. Such gall and foolish stubbornness for someone so small and frail to keep pushing him.

____

Garrosh’s ears twitched and his body gradually relaxed. His anger vanished, a wave of utter amusement washing over him. The pup may have been stupid, but his stupidity seamlessly spewed into bravery. And the orc could appreciate that.

____

He lowered his arm, licking his lips, his scowl now replaced by a neutral expression, fangs no longer bared.  
  


____

He walked towards the bed, and he could see the child flinch and tense. Garrosh mused to himself, how easily he could break him indeed. How easily he had done so already.

____

The wooden frame creaked with his weight as he sat at the opposite end of the bed, leaning his elbows on his legs. He observed the boy from the corner of his eye. Saw the boy’s eyes widen, and the hairs stand up on the back of his neck, like a frightened kitten.

____

Garrosh flicked the knife with a finger, spinning in his hand. “Has your father yet taught you of the pressures of ruling?”

____

Anduin relaxed a little, “Somewhat. Cannot say I look forward to it.”

____

Garrosh’s fingers sent the dagger in another whirl. He watched it absently, and he felt the boy watch it too. Part of him still wished he would make it the last thing the human ever sees. He furrowed his brow, his lips twisting in a bestial snarl.

____

“I had no training or preparation for it.”

____


	8. Whither goes the way I ride

_**“Garrosh!”**_  
  


The orc glanced up from his work and in the direction the booming voice had come from. If looks alone could kill, the King of Stormwind was definitely giving it his best attempt. Lady Proudmoore, however, was doing a much better job of it, and Garrosh half expected her to deliver the hatred in physical terms. Perhaps she should, he mused. At least he would no longer have to work the fields like some peon.

_“Where is he?”_

Garrosh tilted his head slightly. He turned slowly, pointing a hand uphill. Varian turned his head to follow, and mouthed something Garrosh could not make out over the distance, were he to find himself caring about the King’s thoughts and feelings over the matter in the first place. 

Anduin had been shadowing him like a touch starved pup for the past two weeks, sometimes speaking hours on end, other times simply sitting in silence by him as he did his work. Garrosh found him insufferable… most of the time. He had found himself paying attention to some of the human’s rambling thoughts, sometimes even found himself speaking in turn. Of course, the boy had also befriended the pandaren farmers and guards and even the children that occasionally ran down from the mountain village nearby. He did seem to love this land and its traditions to a degree Garrosh could not understand nor care to even attempt to. But the pup often enjoyed himself learning of Pandaren traditions by witnessing them, or as he was now, playing one of their table games with the Shado-pan. And Garrosh soon learned to appreciate the moments of silence provided by Anduin’s wandering off - although too much of that proved negative as well, and he found himself enjoying the human’s return each time... only to soon again wish he would make himself scarce.

“It took you a while to think of looking here,” Garrosh stated blankly, resuming his work. He thrust the shovel at the soil with determination, and pushed it in deeper with a foot.

“My son was supposed to be at the Temple of Chi-ji, studying. His dragon friend told us of several places my son is fond of. We have been checking them in a route that made sense.”

“An efficient route, logistically?” Garrosh asked, not masking his amusement.

“And you would have a different idea?”

The orc stopped his work, and straightened his back, wiping a sweaty cheek with the back of one hand. “Your boy likes the Jade Forest and is intimate with it, and previously spoke to me with what appeared to be genuine interest. Two of those things were in the same place.”

The King only acknowledged him by furrowing his eyebrows and narrowing his eyes further. With a snort, Garrosh added, “How you found yourself in the predicament where your enemy can read your own son better than you can, I do not care. But perhaps you should address it before he runs off someplace you no longer find him.”

“Do you _enjoy_ angering people, Hellscream?”

“I enjoy speaking my mind.”

“Then perhaps you too should address _that_ before you lose it again, or before someone misplaces it along with your head.”

Garrosh’s features twisted in displeasure, but he simply turned his attention back to his work. “Go retrieve your pup.”  
  


Anduin had been expecting this at any moment, of course, so he resigned to his fate without as much as flinching. And as he followed his father, the Lady of Theramore, and their kingsguards, away, he turned to wave a feeble farewell to Garrosh.

The orc, of course, thought it stupid to wave back. That, and he was already planning on enjoying the silence. Finally away from a human child with what seemed like lifetimes of bottled up grievances and joys. Garrosh did still wonder how come the boy so easily spoke to him. Their chats during the trial had been amusing and interesting in the sense of watching the boy come pester him about his actions and easily be ruffled by his answers. How could yous, why did yous, they had their entertainment value. And whenever the boy had almost managed to start genuine conversations, it had been easy to avoid answering.

But here, for a little over two weeks, there had been no bars between them. No visitation hours. No guards interrupting or rushing them, no trial taking up half the day. And no overbearing father, Garrosh snorted to himself as he shoveled the dark dirt. Here, the boy could choose for as long to engage and the topic, and he chose plenty. Garrosh was certain the boy would have even slept in the same room, talking throughout the night perhaps, had he gotten his way.

The orc wiped his face again, scratching at the hairs absently, watching the figures vanish in the distance. A small smile escaped him. The boy was already outsmarting the father. Already wise beyond his years. And kind.

He grabbed the shovel with both hands again, thrusting it forcefully. All that remained in the orchard were the sounds of his movements, the breeze through the trees, the little stream, and the birds. Garrosh found himself alone with his thoughts again. Entirely alone.

And soon enough, he found himself missing the yapping pup.  
  


  


It had been another month in the cherry orchard. Nobody else had come to visit Garrosh. But the pandaren appeared to have taken a liking to him. And he to them, which he would not have admitted months before.

With his breakdown, his schedule had changed. He was not a slave, they insisted. No need to work himself to death, there were no deadlines, no requirements, and besides, he worked better rested. They simply had no idea of the endurance and limits of an orc, and he kept going and going… Which of course, was only because he had wanted to be done with it quicker. But soon enough, he had found himself following their advice to rest and eat more than he was working. He, too, felt that in a strangely paradoxical sense, he had been a speedier worker that way.  
  


Now he stood in his room, looking at the stranger in the mirror. Unruly chestnut hair framed his face, a sight he had not seen since he was a pup running around Nagrand playing with sticks. Stranger yet, he had easily grown accustomed to his beard, something he had never indulged in before. Many strong orcs kept intricately braided beards. However, he found it a chore, and simply tolerated its presence, just like the world seemed to tolerate his.

He looked down towards the cherry wood box on the table. It was about as large as his palm, decorated with a crimson cloud serpent flying through swirly white clouds, and it held grooming supplies. The pandaren lady had, irritatingly enough, assumed he was growing his hair out as a statement, as a change. She had gifted him her late husband’s grooming set - oils to keep the beard healthy, oils to make his hair untangle easier, scissors, a shaving blade, and combs and beads carved out of mushan bone and intricately decorated with stylized cranes and koi.

_“He always liked to keep his hair and beard in such good condition. It is nice that I do not have to throw the box away altogether.”_

_“What killed him?”_

_“The war between the outsiders.”_

She had never blamed him outright, and while he knew the Alliance was just as guilty of assaulting this land, it seemed every breathing thing on the face of Azeroth was eager to forget that detail and focus on him. So much did that clash with his current experience, that he had repeatedly wondered if these pandaren even knew who worked their fields and whom they were tasked to guard. 

They knew full well, of course, and he was aware if it. Yet the way they treated him, with enough food to feed three like him, allowing him rest, preparing him warm baths,... he would never understand these strange people and their strange customs.

Still, he had not once used any of the supplies from the little box. But on this day, he reached for it, and opened it, intending to do more than mindlessly spin them in his hands and mull over their designs in an attempt to stop his mind from wandering elsewhere. 

On this day, Taran Zhu was supposed to arrive and inspect his work. And, as much as he would have loved to not waste time on this, he suspected it would prompt fewer questions and fewer empty proverbs. 

The oils did not matter much. He assumed nobody would be smelling his beard and praising its shine. As much as the Pandaren women liked pretending it was not so, he was still very much a prisoner. And besides, at that rate, he would save more time shaving.

He reached for the comb, brushing his hair back. The tangles angered him. And his hair falling forward once more did not make him feel any better, either. With a deep sigh, he abandoned that venture. At least he no longer looked like a dead beast something had dragged through the mud and left to rot. Surely, that had to count for something.

Placing the comb back in the box, he brushed his fingers through his mess of a beard. It somewhat settled down, yet stray hairs still sprouted all over. He grabbed a handful, spinning it around his finger, straightening it out. Took a moment to inspect himself. With a bit of combing, and one of those beads, it would almost look

_Stupid._

He furrowed his brow, letting go of the hair, which promptly resumed its wild shape. He might as well shave it. Even on a good day, it would not suit him at all. He reached for the little box.

And closed the lid slowly.  
  


  


Taran Zhu and his host were speaking quickly in their barbaric language. He sat obediently at the large table, a porcelain cup of fragrant warm tea in his hands. As everything in this forsaken place, the tea was made of cherries, but even so, Garrosh actually found himself enjoying it.

“She tells me you have been better help than her own children, and would very much prefer to keep you around,” Taran Zhu turned to him, grinning. “I have done you the service of declining.”

“Ah, you should have let him make the choice himself.” 

A corner of Garrosh’s lips raised in amusement. If he could do less work for the same privileges, he could see himself --- he shook his head. See himself what? Don on overalls and a straw hat and pick cherries until his back grew a hump? 

“I appreciate the offer, but I believe I still have crimes to atone to.” 

“Perhaps later, then,” the lady laughed.

Taran Zhu smiled at her, then turned towards him. “Tell me, Garrosh Hellscream, how many trees have you planted?”  
  


Garrosh stared blankly. _How many…_ He blinked. _He had lost count._ That damn human pup threw his count off weeks ago, and he did not even remember at what number he had stopped. He could guess an estimate based on that. But how could he have forgotten to count? He tensed his muscles in anger, and only by sheer miracle did he not break the flimsy cup, which only now did he realize he was holding tightly. He looked in it, as if it held an answer, but predictably, there was not much help coming from there. Lowering it on the table surface, he looked towards the lady. Surely, she would know of her own orchard, she would know her own land, the amount of trees she had. Surely, she had kept records somewhere, right? 

“He has planted plenty,” she answered sweetly, picking up her own cup of tea.

“I forgot to keep count,” he mumbled, frustration clear in his snarl. “I can go count them now, if-”

Taran Zhu raised a hand and stopped him mid sentence. “I know you will roll your eyes at this statement, but your punishment was not about a count. You will not know anything more at ten thousand and one trees, than you will know at nine thousand, nine hundred and ninety nine. There is no magic in a number, no wisdom. Only mathematicians and merchants see truth in numbers. I see truth in what your host has told me. Her words of praise were high, her orchard is full, and your work here is done. Regardless of your answer, I was going to request you go pack what belongings you have and rest, as we shall set off first thing tomorrow.”


	9. All those lies suit you. Lies are true for you.

Three armored tigers as large as any mighty worg awaited on the edge of the orchard. His Shado-pan guard had readied them before dawnbreak, and Garrosh had been allowed to enjoy one last meal with the farmers.

Taran Zhu mounted his beast in silence, an imposing white tiger with silver armor. The other two were orange with jaden armor, and his assigned beast already had his one pack of belongings hanging on the saddle. His guard held the beast steady as he mounted.

“Do not get any ideas, the tiger will not answer you,” she stated simply before walking to her own beast.

And with that, they had set off.  
  


They had traveled quite some distance in silence when Taran Zhu spoke a word in his native tongue and their tigers came to a halt. 

Garrosh surveyed the blackened ground in front of them. It resembled a charred grassland, with puddles of white liquid reminiscent of quicksilver scattered throughout. Chunks of jade some as large as him, parts of them carved in what looked like a scale pattern, haphazardly dotted the little island. Brow furrowed, Garrosh nodded his head towards the ground. “What is this?”

“Sha corruption.”

Wincing, Garrosh glanced at the scars on his own arms, left behind by the same strange magic, and then turned his head towards the Pandaren. Yet the questions appeared to be displayed plainly across his face, as his companion answered them before they were spoken.

“This is how the land looks after the Sha have bled out of it. How the land looks when they ooze back onto it once destroyed. I will take it you have never seen it before, or perhaps you have but did not know the cause. Whichever it is, you know now.

“This was one of the first sites the Sha manifested on. When war came to this land, the armies destroyed the villages and structures of my people. This here was a jade statue. You see, Yu’lon, the Great Serpent, sheds her body once she dies, only for her spirit to inhabit and breathe life into a new jade serpent carefully crafted by my people. When the war destroyed it, my people thought Yu’lon will, too, be killed with the broken cycle, and their despair had manifested the first of the Sha. Fortunately, while the current body of the Celestial is dying, it is not yet dead, and my people have begun work on a new jade serpent. There is still hope, and that glimmer of hope and the help of outsiders vanquished the Sha of Doubt.”

Garrosh’s gaze drifted through the ground, unfocused, as he awaited Taran Zhu’s accusations to come. The longer they failed to, the harsher the distressing need to hear them seared at his soul, until he hurled them himself out of the deepening abyss of his mind. “And this is because of me.”

“Perhaps. It is also because of the Alliance.”

The orc glanced at him again, brows raised. Taran Zhu ran his fingers down his chin and continued.

“War is not one sided, despite what the trial did its best to portray. The Alliance army was here, too, destroying my land and my people. When their generals and your generals clashed here, it caused this. Your generals alone, while they have destroyed plenty, would not have managed to do all this alone. Yet it appears the Alliance has forgotten this inconsequential detail while so happily making a case about what _you_ have caused _them_. An entire week of testaments and memories and not one day had they dedicated to showing what you have done to the very land of the judge and jury, the crimes I personally wanted you to answer for.

“Instead, I sat through a week of testaments against the entire orc race, testaments fueled by nothing more than pointless ancestral hatred. I watched them try their best to discredit any good to ever come out of your kind. I watched them try to raise against you crimes before you were even born, thinking it perfectly justified to do so.

“I sat through an entire week of them judging you for the crimes of your Kor’kron. And while you have ordered many of those, and it is correct of you to be tried for them, many of the instances chosen were acts done by their own accord.

“I sat through testaments against another orc clan, and while they were horrid beyond words, once again, they had little to do with you. I know I had stated you guilty of crimes of those you have associated with, but I expected it to be limited to your soldiers as you ruled, not to every orc clan since the dawn of time.

“I sat through a week of their testaments against you. As Chu’shao Bloodhoof has proven, testaments that stood on brittle footing. And not one testament not centered around what the _Alliance_ has lost because of you. As the Celestials themselves have stated, the trial was not only about you.”

Garrosh snorted. “Do you believe anyone will listen?”

“Do you believe _you_ will listen?”

Garrosh turned his head to look at the little island so desecrated by the Sha. Did he? He, in fact, found out he did not care much either way. And perhaps neither did anyone else.

“Lord Taran Zhu, some time back, Garrosh asked me if the Sha could still affect the land, or rather, him,” his female guard spoke. “I was hoping you could assure him better than I could.”

Taran Zhu eyed the orc thoughtfully for a long moment. “Of course. The Sha no longer exist. Well, some still do, but we have not seen any new ones appear as they used to. We believe that in taking the heart of Y’shaarj away and destroying it, you have ensured they would never again appear, either.”

“Well, that wasn’t my intention,” Garrosh snapped. The notion he had helped the pandaren angered him beyond words, beyond metaphors and figures of speech. If he truly had, then surely he would have walked free by now.

“What was your intention then?” Taran Zhu asked calmly.

“War.”  
  


  


Taran Zhu had not liked that answer much. And Garrosh cared little. No words were exchanged between the trio for a long time, as the tigers dashed down the windy paths of the Jade Forest. The trees soon let way to a wide, sunny valley, and the trio crossed a bridge over a wide river.

“They call this the Valley of the Four Winds,” Taran Zhu finally spoke.

“It looks like it has enough trees.”

“Indeed it does. This is not our final stop. But we will have to let the tigers rest, and we can rest ourselves. And do me a favor, Garrosh Hellscream. Do not mention who you are.”  
  


The request had been confusing back then, even infuriating, but sitting by the small table in this nondescript farmhouse, he finally did understand. These were peasants, farmers, to them he was simply another orc wanderer, like the many that had crossed their doorstep over the past year. And thus, they were treated to a humble meal of baked squash and turnips, with warm tea. The two Shado-pan were still enjoying themselves, but Garrosh found he was starting to have enough of the niceties.

“I wish to discuss something with you,” Taran Zhu stated blankly, resting his chopsticks down on the table. “I could not help but notice a pattern in your acts.”

Garrosh looked up. He found he had, in fact, had enough of this, too. Every single act, every single word, analyzed so deeply. He did not answer. Which, annoyingly, the pandaren took as invitation to freely continue.

“We have a saying. If you push a branch away and it hits you in the face, it is not the branch to be blamed. I noticed a lot of your acts of war had been along these lines. Of course, after that it seemed you simply started enjoying war, or perhaps felt it was too late to turn back, I do not know, and perhaps you do not know either. And even then, the way you warred… The others focused on how much you warred, and all I could focus on was how selective it was.

“I took the liberty of speaking in private with your former adviser after I sent you on your way to the orchard. I found it intriguing he could not speak against you as easily as all the others. He tells me of how after your duel with Bloodhoof’s father, you were so angry you had been forced to strike him down in deceitful ways, that you demanded Bloodhoof let you kill the traitor yourself. He tells me how during one of your campaigns, one of your generals killed civilian targets, and you killed that general with your own hand in blind fury. He also tells me of how when Lady Windrunner used questionable tactics you had explicitly forbade against the Alliance cities, you instilled martial law in her homeland and had your men keep her from ever doing anything similar to anyone, and demanded she destroy the… plague weapon, I believe it was called.

“So I find myself intrigued, and ask him for more. He then tells me how your men had always been instructed to avoid as much collateral as possible. He tells me how long it took you to put your foot down against dissenters. He tells me that when you hauled your spoils back to Orgrimmar and barricaded the city, there were still civilians, families, orphaned children, inside the city walls. And how no harm was to come to any of them from your soldiers, as they had posed no threat to you. You did not feel the need to uproot them nor slaughter them just to make a statement. Far from the picture your accusers and witnesses had painted.

“So I find myself intrigued _once more_ , and look at your warpath through Pandaria. Not a single village destroyed, not a single field of crops burnt, you simply followed your goals around, your soldiers not laying their hands on a single pandaren that was not a threat. You passed right next to this very farmstead, and they do not recognize you. They offer you what little food and drink they have with a warm smile, as if you are nothing but one of the monk trainees we have been seeing as of late.

“Quite unlike a conqueror, don’t you think?”  
  


Garrosh had no answer.   
  


“I do think so, myself. I have seen war, and I have seen conquerors. They burn, they pillage, they destroy. Child, farmhand, cattle, crop, an army always destroys everything it comes across. Were any other conqueror following your path through our lands, this farmstead and many others would be nothing but rubble and corpses. You pass through places like a crane passes through water, reaching for the fish it has its eyes on, and the water remains much the same after its passing.

“So I find myself, yet again, highly intrigued, and cannot help but wish to ask you in person. Why Theramore? Why suddenly destroy an entire city, innocents and all, in such a way?”

Garrosh clenched his fists in anger, his nostrils flaring. Why did they all ask about that? What were they hoping to accomplish? Make him regret? Make him ‘see the error of his ways’? He did not regret it one bit. It had to be done, that was war, even the pandaren had just said so himself. Shouldn’t they all be glad there weren’t more Theramores, instead? He did not owe anyone explanations. Not over this, not over anything. 

Finally accepting no explanation would come, Taran Zhu picked up his chopsticks again and helped himself to more food.


	10. Reaching a point of insanity

It had taken them two days to cross the Valley of the Four Winds - one night in the nameless farmstead and one night in the little village on the pathway between the Valley and the low marshlands of Krasarang.

That evening, Garrosh found himself sitting next to a roaring bonfire. There were four such flames bordering the village on its south side, creating an illusory barrier meant to stop the wild beasts from venturing out of the swamp. And it worked efficiently, that much was clear. Fear kept the beasts at bay. It had not stopped his army from marching through, however, but much like Taran Zhu had pointed out - the pandaren village was intact. It was almost an insult now. The pandaren was correct. He did not behave as a Warchief should. He had been too weak, too kind, too forgiving. No wonder his own men had so readily usurped him and thrown him in chains.

His guard had brought him a bowl of dumplings and a pair of chopsticks, and this time he found himself using the things as he absently followed the silhouettes of two tigers prowling just outside the light’s reach. They wandered no closer, perhaps by now having learnt that being exposed in the light meant death. And they soon figured he was not about to walk to them gleefully and offer himself up as a meal, and with that, they lost interest and vanished into the marshlands.

“Interesting, no?” his guard spoke, pointing at the quivering ferns with her sticks. “Hunger and desperation drive them all the way here, and then fear drives them all the way back. They’ve all seen the flames for their entire lives, but they still hope something might change and allow them an opening, a chance that was not there before.”

An absent ‘mhm’ was the only acknowledgement Garrosh had granted her musings. His mind was still circling the same thoughts. How good Taran Zhu was at taking everything away from him, his pride, his freedom, and now even the notion that he had been _good_ at what he had been doing.  
  


  


The following night they had to make camp inside a ruined Mogu village, as still functional settlements were few and far between in the marshlands. As if that weren't insult enough, they were to take turns keeping guard against the predators. Strangely, that included him, and neither pandaren had objected when he had offered to take the first watch.

Throughout the entire journey, and even since before the trial, he had been hoping for such an occasion. A perfect opening. Frustration and shame gnawed at him… Garrosh Hellscream had loved proudly and openly waging war and dealing with his foes, and now he was reduced to a predator of opportunity. And his opening in the wall of flames had finally arrived… Offered an occasion with both of the pandaren asleep, so readily and foolishly trusting him as if a few months in Pandaria have magically changed who he was… People’s nature does not change. They knew that. He knew that. Fighting is inherent to all living beings. Tooth and fang and tusk, all would readily bite to defend their life and freedom.

A fighter will always be a fighter, strong axe in hand and heavy plates on shoulders, or nothing but cloth and a bamboo stick.

And supposedly, a killer would always be a killer.  
  


As the two pandaren settled down, he entertained himself running over every possible scenario in his mind, biding his time. Killing the two nuisances in their sleep and then making a stand against the rest of the Shado-pan once they inevitably figure out what happened? Easily doable. Thrilling, even. A good way to die, if nothing else. Perhaps he may even manage an escape. Perhaps they would never know where Garrosh Hellscream had gone, nor would they question just another monk trainee traveling the land seeking a way off the cursed continent.

And then the actual planning, ah, he had delighted in it so.

Using their own weapons would be beautifully poetic… He was rather certain the woman carried daggers and a shortsword and her crossbow. He could use a stone, he could sharpen a stick right under their eyes… Perhaps he could incite the tigers to attack. Even the most loyal worg under the right circumstances can be coaxed into a blind bloodlust against his orcish brother - any predator could see its own blood as prey, let alone its handler… Pandaren were made of more fat than muscle, a tiger would certainly find that appealing… And if not, their throats could still easily be crushed like fledgling birds under an orc’s brute strength. Between the stint in a jail cell and the months spent eating more than he needed, his form may have long lost the grace and ferocity so many had feared. But they would learn to fear him again. Orcs were many things, and none of those were ‘weak cowards’. He would have to play along for a while more, and then he would have his chance. The chance to grab back what had been taken from him. Taran Zhu may have been a fragment of it, a mere nobody in the grand scheme of things. A mistake to address. This night, perhaps, how convenient. What a crazy fool, trusting an enemy! And once this one mistake had been addressed, then the rest could follow. The rest of the pandaren, the Alliance, _the Horde. The whole of Azeroth. They had stirred the wolf in its den and now the wolf would not stop until their bones were crushed and they lay bleeding. And then they would know. They would know what betrayal truly felt like. They would know what his fury truly meant. They wanted death so badly? Then they shall taste it for themselves._  
  


  


Startled, Garrosh shot up. Dazed, blood rushing through him, he feverishly glanced around until his eyes and mind finally focused. He looked down at his shoulder, at the furry paw that had gently shaken him awake. The Shado-pan took her hand away, flashed him an infuriatingly gentle smile, and walked off. 

Fangs bared in a snarl, he glanced up at the sky. Still dark, with a vague violet tint towards the horizon. Asleep. He had fallen asleep and he had blundered his chance and he had made _the damned pandaren think less of him and she had successfully snuck up on him what kind of sluggish, worthless cretin was he becoming?_  
  


Taran Zhu sat on the remains of a dais, legs crossed, eyes closed. Garrosh was familiar with the posture - a morning routine his guard also partook in often. _‘Ground oneself, free oneself,’_ what nonsense. He scoffed, walking closer to the pandaren, waiting. And waiting. _For what?_ He frowned in frustration with himself, then broke the silence.

“How come you trusted me to keep first watch?”

The pandaren did not open his eyes nor shift his position as he spoke. “You and I both know you are many things, yet a fool is not on that list. You may hate me, and you may have bested me in combat once, and you may feel your single guard is easy to overpower. But you also know you have no means to get off a hostile continent, and its entire population would extensively search for you were you to kill us. And I do not think even you are quite ready to take on every single fighter on Pandaria, especially without your soldiers or weapons. Unless your plan was to become an unbathed, savage hermit, always on the run?”

“Do you wish to insult me, pandaren?” Garrosh spat.

Yet the pandaren did not grace him with an equally hostile reaction, his eyes still closed, his voice still composed. “Is free will truly that insulting to you? Or are you perhaps bothered by what you choose to do with it?”

Clenched fists, snorting in annoyance, he rushed off towards the edge of the ruined settlement.

Vines and moss ate at the stone this far out, cracks marring the surfaces of each slate; cracks which sent pebbles rolling about whenever Garrosh’s weight pushed the paving blocks down. Coming across a toppled over column, he climbed up on top of it, half expecting it to crumble to dust under his weight. Yet, it held. And he found himself gradually relaxing, staring off into the distance, alone with his thoughts once more.  
  


  


“You should eat. I know it’s not much, but...”

Snorting in annoyance, Garrosh glanced over his shoulder at the Shado-pan, and the things she was carrying. “What are those?”

“Rice buns.” She lifted a hand slightly, “This one has meat inside.” She lowered her hand again, and raised the other, “And this, candied cherries.”

Lines on his face deepening, ears twitching with the change of expression, Garrosh shook his head. “I had enough cherries for a lifetime.”

Without a word and with a neutral expression, the pandaren held out the meat-filled rice bun, and waited an annoyingly long time, until he caved in and grabbed it solely out of annoyance. With a kind smile, the woman wrapped the other rice bun in a piece of cloth. And, annoyingly, made no effort to leave.

_Ah, marvelous._

Garrosh snorted in obvious annoyance, turning his gaze towards the marshy jungle once more.

“I overheard what you talked with Lord Zhu.”

_Of course she had._

“Do you remember those tigers by the village border?”

Garrosh grunted his acknowledgement. What did she take him for, an idiot?

“You see. They are the same type of beast we ride. And I know your people ride large wolves. I take it you know how the taming process works?” 

“Take a pup, raise it by hand, teach it not to bite its handlers.” 

“Of course. And are they any lesser than the wild beasts?”

He snapped his head around, his amber gaze falling onto her. “They need to respond to the handlers’ demands, they will never be as free and fierce as their wild kin!”

“And yet, we allow them to hunt. In war, they take down more enemies than some of their riders.” She paused. “You worry that others aim to take out your claws and teeth-”

His scoff cut her short, “You wish to claim they do not? Have you _seen_ them?”

The Shado-pan canted her head slightly. “You are not dealing with them now. Lord Zhu is not one of them.”

Garrosh turned his head away once more, muttering on a low tone. “They are all the same.”

Although silence followed, he could still feel the pandaren’s presence - and gaze. No doubt annoyed he had cut her pointless metaphor short. His hands rolled the rice bun around, his eyes darting across the horizon, focusing on nothing.

And after a long moment of silence, he heard the pandaren walk away.  
  


Only to return not long later.

“Spar me.”

Garrosh turned, certain his face mirrored his confusion perfectly, but before he could articulate anything, a spear was thrown at him. He caught it, inspecting it.

No, not a real spear. He would have noticed it earlier lying somewhere, were it that. It was a long, solid stick the pandaren had tied a sharp dagger to.

An even more puzzled expression spread across Garrosh’s face as his eyes went from the makeshift spear to the woman. She, too, was holding one such embellished stick, and her green eyes fixed him intently.

He scoffed. “Spar you.”

“Yes, what’s the matter? Does your race not fight for fun or practice?”

“Of course we do,” and his outrage was clear in his tone.

“See, I know you dislike this tiger metaphor. But,” she raised a paw, one finger pointing upwards, “a tiger that is kept confined for too long with no way to sharpen its claws, hunt, or play fight with the other tigers, will soon lose its mind. Begins pacing, turns aggressive, dangerous. And perhaps,” she put both hands on her makeshift spear, pointing the bladed tip in his direction, “so do you.”

He snorted in amusement, sliding off his perch. “You stand by that statement, when everyone else accuses me of committing crimes while warring?”

“First,” she swung her spear and he parried the blow, a primal reflex long before his mind caught on. “Warring is not a war crime.” She paced around him, spinning her spear in one hand. “Second,” another blow, another reflexive parry, “it is not considered the failure of a tiger if the handlers could not teach him how to behave.”

Garrosh lowered the spear, tilting his head. “This metaphor again?”

“Of course,” she smiled.

“I have no handlers, I am no pet tiger,” Garrosh muttered, swinging the spear in turn. The Shado-pan’s counter strike came so swiftly and precisely, it almost threw the spear out of his grip. His entire body reacted, as if it weren’t a mere game, but once more the battles he was used to, that he lived for. Blood pumping, thrill flowing through him once more, he grabbed onto the spear with a tighter grip and changed his posture.

“Do you really not? Were you cast into the world holding your axe, all alone?”

He thrust the spear, and the pandaren dodged swiftly, leaving him to recover his footing and shake his head like an angered wolf. He turned towards her new position. “No, but once I was old enough, I did not belong to anyone.”

“Were you to ask a tiger, it would say it does not belong to its owner either,” she stated plainly, propping the shaft of the spear against her sandal. “But it is expected to respond to them. And were the handler good, their tiger might know when to strike and when to hold back. But were the handler to show disinterest, how could they expect the tiger to learn these things by itself?”

The spear fell rapidly in her direction. She kicked her own weapon back up in her hands and parried the blow, yet the strength behind it shattered both the sticks as they clashed.

“Enough!”

Garrosh snarled in response to Taran Zhu’s firm command. The pandaren, however, turned his attention to the woman.

“Speaking of tigers, go get them ready.”

“Yes, Lord Zhu.”

With another snarl, Garrosh kicked at one of the wood fragments. Clenching his fists, he paced towards the toppled column.

“You will have to forgive her, she did not aim to anger you. Still, well done.”

The orc whirled around on his heels, nostrils flared, brow furrowed. “Well done _on what_?” he growled.

Once more, Taran Zhu spoke irritatingly calmly. “The spar. And not striking her once she had angered you.”

Garrosh shook his head once, turning around to pace again, his fists tight enough that his nails were digging painfully into his palms. He would have. He knew it. Taran Zhu knew it. So why did he once more act so irritatingly oblivious?

“I will go help her pack up. When you are ready, we will head out.”

Without awaiting an answer, the pandaren left him alone to his pacing. Back and forth by the toppled column, his heavy boots clacking oddly on the cracked stones. Back and forth, eyeing the ground, then the ivy and moss, then the trees in the distance. Back, and forth, his mind now racing faster than his heart. Back,

and forth.

He stopped, staring out into the distance.

Taran Zhu was right, if he were to kill them and run off, the other pandaren would hunt him down like some rabid animal to be put down. But if he were to simply… _run?_ He knew the marshes of Krasarang relatively well, he could find a cave and perhaps outsmart the pandaren search parties. Eventually they would give up, wouldn’t they? Assume he couldn’t live that long into the wild?

Pressing his lips together, he turned around, walking towards the pandaren, picking up the two knives on the way.

The two had been talking and stopped as they heard him approach. He threw the knives lightly in the woman’s direction, handle first, and she caught them midair deftly, spinning them around and sheathing them back on her belt, only pausing to blink at him after the act. He kept walking towards his tiger, mounting it and easing into the saddle, grabbing onto the leather straps and staring ahead, quietly.

Like an obedient beast awaiting the command of his handlers.


	11. Chapter 11

Sun rose and apexed and they still traveled in silence on the ancient, deteriorating, stone road. A tiered temple covered in vines and moss reared through the treetops, and soon after, they began walking on land once more marred by the marks of the Sha. Even the lush swamp and clear water had not been immune to the touch of the ancient horrors. No doubt he would be blamed, no doubt he would need to pay his dues here, too. Plant mangroves, perhaps? Or perhaps chase away mongoose.

Garrosh nodded his head towards the scarred land. “And what of here? What is my task?”

“Nothing whatsoever. This is for the initiates of the Crane to clean up. We will travel a little further.”

His ears drooping slightly with surprise, he recovered quickly and, pressing his lips in slight displeasure, Garrosh shifted his weight in the saddle. _Not expected to aid the temple of a Celestial? Then what?... there was little else in terms of pandaren settlements in Krasarang._

And still, they rode on further and further.

  


There was a certain stillness and peace this deep within the marshlands. Soft moss grew on the soil, on stone, on trees; it hung from the canopy in lazy garlands, and cushioned the sounds of birds and beasts and the flow of waters. A strange peace, oddly welcomed.

Padded feet slowed as they touched upon the softer, unsteady ground. A salty tang lingered in the still air, and the blanketed marsh no longer drowned the distinctive lap of waves at sandy shores. Recognition flooded the orc as he glanced around and the jagged claws of anxiety gripped at his heart with the fury of a vicious beast. He knew exactly what would soon be visible between the thick marsh trees. He had traveled through this general area before, and not only once... 

And indeed, just as he remembered, a moment later the foliage let enough way for the tall, cold walls to be seen. Solid, black metal reinforcements held them together and would do so for years to come. Tall, sharp metal spikes lined the top of the thick walls, and between them, faded red roofs could be glimpsed. Large wooden doors stood ajar, although under normal circumstances they would have been shut firm and barricaded. And Garrosh allowed himself to feel pride upon laying eyes on the familiar architecture, even in its state of disrepair that so poetically mirrored his own.

  
  


“Tell me, Garrosh Hellscream, what are we looking at?”

When he was met with silence, Taran Zhu continued. “You are no longer on trial. Whatever you have to say will not make anyone throw you in prison again. I know you managed to be more talkative with your guard and others, and I simply seek answers to questions that your trial did not address.”

Garrosh inhaled deeply. “Domination Point.”

“And what was it?”

He licked his lips. He could perhaps part with that information, and whatever else the pandaren inquired. Perhaps it would get him to finally shut up.

“It was to serve as my base of operations while on Pandaria.”

“I see.”

Their tigers finally reached the shallows, and started wading through the water, their pace slowed significantly as their paws had to constantly check for good footing. As the beasts had to submerge up to their chests, Taran Zhu spoke again. 

“Why is it on an island? Seems rather inconvenient to travel back and forth, and what if you ever needed to expand it?” 

Garrosh snickered to himself. It was hard to get to because this wasn’t the best route to it. Unless the tides changed the sand banks, he could have guided them on his usual route, had they asked. 

“There was no need for expansion. The base had all it needed. A sturdy wall, a barracks large enough to hold all the troops, A stable for the beasts. The watchtower on those cliffs, high enough to see to the horizon. A hovel for those who needed a table and a place out of the rain to work. And sturdy walls and gates… and the goblin airstrip they had insisted upon.

“As for your question on why, it was an easy place to defend. An island, with a cliff on one side. By the time riders and war machines slog through the water, we had defenses ready. “

“Were you the one to pick the location?”

“Yes.”

“And who designed it?”

Garrosh had almost felt insulted and his reply came in harsh indignation, _“Me!”_

“It reminds me of Orgrimmar. Are all orcish designs like this?”

Garrosh shook his head. “I designed Orgrimmar too. I had a chief architect for that, but most of its features were my idea.”

Taran Zhu rubbed his chin. “It is my understanding Orgrimmar has been a settlement long before you were appointed leader.”

“A settlement, certainly. One that was held together with twigs and twine. One that could have succumbed easily. It had outer walls so flimsy, you could cough on them and they would fall. And that is what happened during the Cataclysm. I was not about to rebuild such a joke.”

“So you built a fortress.”

He almost spat the words out. “A _city_ , not some... nomad’s oasis.”

“An imposing and intimidating city, especially for somebody who has not seen it before. A solid city that needed all the armies of Azeroth, even your own, to contribute so it would fall. Would you consider your work with it a success?” 

Garrosh blinked. He had never considered that topic yet up to this very point, and doing so stung. He shook his head, “No. It fell.”

“Only the main gate. The rest still stands.”

“The main gate, and my generals, and my Kor’kron. And me. That is failure enough.”

The tigers reached the beach and their riders slid off, allowing the beasts to shake the seawater out of their furs and groom themselves. Taran Zhu seemed to be mulling over the last discussion. Good. It gave Garrosh time to look at the walls of Domination Point… and the places where waves had eaten away at the beach and were now eating away at the wall. He should have accounted for that, he thought in frustration. The sea would need quite a bit of time to claim the walls, but if war was still ongoing, it would be an easy spot for catapults to crumble now that the ground support was almost entirely gone.

“You can see the Great Wall from here,” his guard stated, her voice upbeat. 

Garrosh turned to look. He had of course seen the pandaren wall as soon as his ship approached the land. It had never moved anywhere while this had been his home base. Its silhouette had always been looming in the distance. But on this day the skies were clear, no mist, no dust from pacing armies, no smoke from goblin contraptions. He could almost make out the bricks in the wall and the decorated rim on top. It definitely put Domination Point to shame. It put _Orgrimmar’s_ walls and barricades to shame. And, predictably, it gave Taran Zhu new ideas.

“The Mogu built that wall around the western and northern borders of the Empire, to keep the Mantid out. It held for centuries. The Gate of the Setting Sun, the one on the Mantid empire’s border, almost fell. It was a system of two large gates around a courtyard, but the secondary gate still stands. As of now, the Mantid are no longer a threat. But I have a question for you. If the gate had fallen and our lands overrun, would you think it the fault of the builder?”

“Of course! They did not account for this… Mantid army growing to a larger size, or perhaps developing better siege weapons. Whatever it was that made the first gate fall and almost felled the second.”

“What did you not account for?”

Garrosh clenched his fists and almost growled. “That the armies of the Horde would be on the _outside_ , besieging the city too.”

Taran Zhu’s features twisted in a lopsided smile that failed to reach his eyes. “When you outsiders first started traveling our lands, and reached Kun-lai, they helped against the raids of the Yaungol, and against the Sha that was present there. Anduin Wrynn and champions of both armies then managed to convince Xuen and me that you all mean good. The Shado-pan opened the ancestral gate to allow outsiders in the Vale of Eternal Blossoms - the heart of our empire - in good faith. Then you simply walked in and brought your war to a land that has not seen war in centuries, a land that fell easily before you."

Taran Zhu turned his gaze on him before continuing. “It would appear neither you nor I accounted for betrayal.”

  


Garrosh did not offer an answer, simply a brief nod. It would appear so, indeed. He recalled fragmented memories of Taran Zhu repeatedly attempting to stop him from entering the ancient tombs under the Vale and retrieving the artifact he had sought so desperately. The pandaren, while a fierce warrior, had also failed to account for the Kor’kron, and for Garrosh’s own skill as a warrior, and had been overwhelmed. Garrosh was only truly sorry he had not finished the job and save himself from his current predicament. Annoyingly enough, Taran Zhu continued speaking, blissfully unaware of Garrosh’s thoughts on the whole matter. 

  


“Orgrimmar had many gates, it was well planned out for a siege, almost as if expecting one.”

“Orcs have always been at war. And I never was particularly liked.”

“And yet, when I walked in, I saw the corpses, I saw the destruction, I saw the healers help the fallen and the soldiers of the victors execute the defeated even after most of the army had cut its way through. Execution after battle would have been your fate too, had I not intervened. And yet, what I also saw was that the only gate that bore marks of assault was the outer main gate. I am curious. Orgrimmar would have stood stronger, perhaps nobody would have reached you, would every single gate been barred. Did you have traitors helping the invaders out and opening the gates for them? Did you _wish_ for a fight? Did you and yours simply… forget about a dozen heavy gates?”

Garrosh found himself struggling to recall that detail. He recalled that Thrall and his two army backup had barged through the heavy gates of his hall, their exchange, but not much else. And now the pandaren was implying they simply strolled in, his gates open and welcoming like some merchant’s stall? All those gates he had meticulously planned to hold back an army, gates in places where siege weapons would not fit, and the pandaren said they had all simply required a push. Had he indeed not accounted for traitors? Within even his Kor’kron? Eitrigg, and High Overlord Saurfang, of course… But neither had been there, opening his own gate. But past that… _Had_ he simply _forgotten? HAD_ he _wanted_ the fight? 

“I… don’t remember exactly…” He shook his head dejectedly, although on the inside it had started gnawing at him. “Warriors lose their best judgment and their memory in war often. I assume I was not above that.”

“Perhaps.”

“May I ask _you_ something, pandaren?”

“Of course.”

“Why _did_ you intervene?”

“Whatever means of justice the other people love to employ, pandaren do enjoy themselves a fair trial where possible. You also committed crimes against Pandaria.”

“Dragging me in chains off to a trial is the greatest possible insult I could receive in life. Orcs are meant to die gloriously on the field of battle! You have deprived me of that, and now here I am chatting with you and digging holes like a-.”

“Collapsed and sobbing, while three dozen men discuss who will get the privilege of chopping your head off? It does not sound much like a glorious death to me. And besides, if you pay your dues, you will be free to pursue that death again.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long wait to those of you who've been keeping track. Started a new job and adapting to the new schedule has been brutal on my free time. I'll upload the chapters in chunks whenever I get a chance, which is probably gonna be weeks in between. But thank you for sticking with :)


	12. Chapter 12

It looked imposing and solid. Would the elements ever reclaim it? 

Of course.

Could he at all hasten that process?

Psch. _Of course._

Who had Taran Zhu taken him for? Of course he knew how the stone blocks were layered, what held them together, how the rusted bolts could be unscrewed, the points that would crumble the roofing with a single blow. He could bring his own walls down with the proper siege machines, and he always planned a step ahead of that, as it were. But the walls would eventually crumble once the waves had eaten at the bank enough, and he had already informed Taran Zhu of that fact. And if the pandaren knew anything of engineering, they could easily undo and make off with the metal reinforcements - he had passed that information on, as well.

He swung the rusty axe at the support beams inside the barracks. The roof would collapse and could be set on fire, and the ashes would feed new trees within the marshlands. It was a start, when all he had to work with was whatever discarded tools his men had left behind.

The structure moaned with each hit, and Garrosh took a mental note of the shortcomings. He had been pressed for time ordering the construction of Domination Point, and his workers had been goblins - not the most reliable, and more than one had perhaps made off with half the bolts intended for the structures. Yet none of that was any excuse for the sloppy job. He could have requested so much better. A well aimed cannonball or a well placed explosive charge could have brought half the structures down, and he was furious at himself for not noticing during the constructions.

  
  


He tightened the rope around the beam and walked to the doorway. Taking a moment to wipe his sweaty brow, he pulled the rope with one harsh motion, and the roof gave way immediately. Most of it, anyway.

“Goodness, are you alright?” his guard asked, running from behind one of the buildings.

Garrosh simply answered with a loud laugh, turning towards the pandaren, his lips curled in what bordered a snarl, a toothy grin crossing them. The dust from the crumbling building framed him, flowing around him thickly like some sort of defiled river. His grin spread further as he locked eyes with the Shado-pan, her expression and demeanor having lost her usual aloofness and confidence.

“I can sort of see why all those people fear you,” she stated simply, straightening her posture, although her hand rested at hip level, on the handle of her sword. She nodded her head towards the mostly collapsed building. “Do you do that often?”

The words stung, strangely enough, and Garrosh grimaced briefly. “I do enjoy building more, as a matter of fact,” he responded blankly, kicking a brick out of his way as he took a few steps away from the rubble.

“I think Master Zhu’s request to hasten the process was intended slightly more metaphorical, I don’t see how collapsing the buildings helps much.”

“The outer walls will collapse sooner or later, the waves eating at them and all. Then a couple of large tides will wash all this away. Or your people can take the brick and stone and work it.”

The pandaren tilted her head, “Seems unlikely. No way to transport them off. Carts would get stuck in the sand, and there is only so much a beast or man can carry.”

Garrosh eyed her, then the bricks, absently. “One of the shallows lays over a solid stone slate. If it handled our war machines, it can handle a cart. I can show you if you wish.” The secret was now pointless to keep, seeing how the small fortress was brought down, and by him of all people.

“A nice and kind offer,” the guard said softly. “However, may I request you do not bring the watchtower or walls down?”

Garrosh looked up at her, “But Taran Zhu was clear with-”

“I will tell him that I suggested you don’t do it. And you can take care of the wooden structures or the oil spills or whatever else that isn’t solid stone and iron.”

Lips pressed together in obvious displeasure at the pandarens' changing minds, the orc finally nodded slowly. “Very well.”

“Besides, doesn’t it hurt you to tear them down? You said you built them.”

“Would it not hurt you to see the wall destroyed?”

“It would, although we did not build the wall. The Mogu did. We simply make use of it.”

“Well… I don’t think anyone likes to remember I built Orgrimmar,” Garrosh muttered in tangible displeasure, and turned around, picking up the axe and starting to walk up the small hill, towards the little hut that had served as a goblin workshop.

The Shado-pan did not follow him. Good. The talk was over, anyway.

  
  


“I got you soup and tea.”

Startled, Garrosh cursed under his breath, before turning to look at the woman, hoping to hide most of his annoyance before they locked eyes. “Still busy.”

“You should take a break.” She placed the large wooden bowl and the tankard on the planning table. “But I will leave them here for you, for when you do.”

He eyed her angrily as he left, his focus thrown off, and he looked back at the wooden beam he had been cutting up. He frowned, looking up at the sky.

When _had_ it gotten dark?

He had of course noticed the shortening days and lengthening dusks, but judging by the violet starry sky and his sweaty, tired muscles, his own intense focus on his tasks was to blame this time around.

Walking to the table, Garrosh rested his axe against a stool and sat down, picking up the tankard full of steaming, fragrant drink, he downed it all in one go. He then turned his attention to the food.

He scoffed, sniffing the contents of the bowl. Yellowish broth and chunks of white meat mixed with some nondescript roots was all he could make out, although it did smell nicer than it looked. Amused at his own thoughts, he picked up the bowl. A year ago, he would have considered this soup a lot fancier than the hastily charred meats and chopped up prickly pears of orcish cooks, yet now he considered it bland compared to the food he had been given ever since his imprisonment. He took a sip of the warm broth, uncertain quite yet about the slightly spicy and slightly sweet taste. Immediately, his body remembered it had not touched food since the morn, and he unceremoniously wolfed down the entire bowl.

  
  


Rocky sand crackled annoyingly loud under Garrosh’s heavy footfalls as he made his way towards the fire. His guard looked up from her food, eyeing him with curiosity.

He cleared his throat, shifting in discomfort. “Do you happen to have more?”

“Of course,” she smiled warmly, standing up, walking towards the blackened iron pot that was lazily boiling over the dying fire. Garrosh recognized the simplistic yet efficient worksmanship of the pot as orcish, of course, as the Shado-pan had not carried any such supplies with her.

Garrosh walked closer, holding the wooden bowl up for her to refill. Once that was done, she resumed her seat on a tree stump, and he walked up to a large rock, pushing it closer to the fire with one leg. His tired muscles responded positively to the warmth of the flames as he sat down, lifting the bowl to his lips.

“Do you like the soup?” She asked disgustingly sweetly.

“It’s… it’s good.” He cleared his throat again, awkwardly. “What is it?”

“Fish and ginseng soup. My mother used to make this on the go,” she gestured with her chopsticks. “Easy to catch fish and prepare it for cooking, and she always said all pandaren should carry dried ginseng with them everywhere.”

Wiping his lips with the back of his hand after a large sip, the orc spoke without looking at her. “You have a large family. Always mention them.”

“Of course! Family, friends, food, as any pandaren would tell you. All that truly matters.”

Bringing the bowl up to his mouth again, Garrosh did not offer any response.

“You never talk about your family.”

Garrosh lowered the bowl, his lips snarled in displeasure. “Nothing to mention. My mother died before I could even remember her. My father left for war and I never saw him again. I got raised by the clan.”

“Oh,” the pandaren looked away, flustered. “I’m sorry.”

Shrugging, the orc added nonchalantly, “It is what it is.”

“I heard a troll say the Horde is like family,” the pandaren chimed cheerfully. 

Garrosh placed the bowl of unfinished soup down firmly and sat up, walking towards the heavy gates of the Hold.

“Don’t go… Garrosh!” The pandaren called after him, on a pleading tone. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

Once through the gates of his old base, he grabbed the axe he had left against the wall, and headed up the outcropping, towards the watchtower. Exhaustion finally caught up to him as he started walking up the stairs, but he only allowed it to overcome him once he was at the top, looking out one of the wall openings. He sat down, axe in his lap, gripping at it hard enough for his knuckles to whiten.

Nobody ever meant it like that, it would appear.

His tired eyes gazed at the horizon, the endless south sea fading into uncharted waters, the low tide lapping lazily at the shore that night, barely audible from the top of the tower. In the distance, the sky looked stranger than he had seen it in his long sessions stargazing during his campaign. A shade of violet rather than inky blue, quivering, rippling…

Narrowing his eyes, Garrosh watched the strange yet familiar phenomenon of the sky seemingly coming alive, and once its colors changed to red, his eyes widened in recognition.

_Of course._

_Pandaria was to the South what Northrend was to the North. And those are the sky lights. Of course they would be visible from here._

And as vivid green ribbons skirted the horizon, Garrosh was once more nothing but a youth clad in heavy armor, standing on the walls of Warsong Hold, discussing the Horde’s next moves with High Overlord Saurfang, their maps lit an otherworldly green, thick paper quivering madly in the howling, bone-chilling wind.


End file.
